


Box of Rain

by indierection (amandamoraisa)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (kinda), (they're idiots), (well lots of rain and a bit of snow because that's england), (which i'll admit was quite self indulgent), 1970s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Bottom Harry, Boxer Louis, Boxers, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Christmas, Disco, Friends to Lovers, Hippie Harry, M/M, Manchester, Mutual Pining, OT5, Pining, Punk Zayn, Top Louis, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandamoraisa/pseuds/indierection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is definitely not the next Muhammad Ali, just an illegal boxer with no prospects for the future. Harry is a hippie Uni student that in his free time informally works as a ring boy. Somehow he manages to always get tangled on the ropes and at the same time charm the pants off of all the fighters and patrons. They meet in Manchester in 1977 and, even though they don't seem to have much in common, they... Well, they just sort of click, really.</p><p>-</p><p>The one with a friendship ruiner game of Monopoly, Harry always ending up in jail for wanting to save the world, Louis face to face with his archenemy and way too many references to 70s music. </p><p>Also staring Zayn as a brooding anarchist punk rocker, Liam as the nerdiest and nicest boxer in all Britain and Niall as a bookmarker that can easily convince people to bet fortunes, but can't make his friends realise their mutual crush on each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Box of Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riverniall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverniall/gifts).



> hello, hello!
> 
> so, i received five lovely prompts from [riverniall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverniall/pseuds/riverniall) and was really torn choosing between them. in the end i ended up writing this one:
> 
> "An AU in which Louis is the heavyweight champion boxer and Harry is the new ring boy, who's a little bit clumsy (more like he's a baby dear who's never walked before) and a lot charming, so nobody's minds when he trips over his big feet, when holding the numbers high in the air, proudly. Also, Louis may be sorta, kinda, maybe a lot in love with him."
> 
> and i know i went wayyyy overboard with it and i'm so sorry, but i hope you'll like it. i enjoyed writing this a lot. merry christmas and happy new year :)
> 
> p.s.: title from grateful dead's song 'box of rain'. and i really mean it when i say there's an obscene amount of 70s music and pop culture ahead.

 

**Manchester, UK (December 1977 - January 1978)**

Manchester in the 1970's can't be described as anything other than bleak. The place is desolate and grim, as if God had forgotten it after the war. That is, if He _does_ in fact exist. Because if there's one city in England that would make you doubt a higher being, that would be Manchester.

It's a hard place to survive. The post industrial slum housings are grey and covered with century old soot. Victorian constructions hide under grime, but no one minds enough to scrape it off. The sense of deprivation, towering dereliction, is overpowering. There's ugliness everywhere you look.

From his window Louis can witness crimes in broad daylight: vandalism, pickpocketing, joy riding, arson. He's lucky when he only gets to watch from the 4th floor instead of being a victim himself. To be fair, it's been a while since he was last picked, given his fame in the neighbourhood these days.

In Hulme, the shabby area where Louis lives, people feed more on gossip than food. So much for that, it’s came as a surprise that his secret lasted more than a year.He suspects Mrs. Hughes was the bigmouth who broke it to the neighbours because he stupidly dropped his bag with all of his gear in front of her last March.

It isn't even much of a secret, and people have quite a callous disregard for illicit activities around here, but Louis assumed it would be if only wise to keep his mouth shut about being an illegal boxer.

The story behind how he became a boxer is a very simple one: when you're surrounded by misery and hopelessness the slightest glimpse of light at the end of a tunnel seems like a ticket to Shangri-La.

When someone catches you beating the shit out of a bicycle thief and that someone looks at you like you're the next Messiah... well, there's something flattering about it.

When the man, eyes still glistening madly in intention, declared: “You're the next Muhammad Ali, my son!” Louis couldn't help but be hooked.

Simon Cowell, that's his name, showered Louis with praises and gave him his grimy business card saying: “You’ve got a talent for boxing, I can tell. Why don't you visit our training centre whenever you're free?”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Cross my heart,” Simon said then, watching as the scumbag who's mug Louis had been punching crawled away defeated, his face just a gory and bloody mask contrasting wildly with the grey scenery. “You laid him out _good_ , didn't you?”

“He was _stealing_ me bicycle. An eye for an eye...”

“Listen, I definitely don't care... What's your name? I'm Simon Cowell.”

“Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson,” he said offering his hand unsure.

“Tell me, can I wait for you there tonight?” Cowell asked arching his thick brows in question. “You can just watch, Louis, see what you think. You don't have to make up your mind just yet. It's good money, though. For the shitehole that is Manchester, I'd say.”

Louis still hesitated, only because he wasn't used to people offering him things like this, out of the blue. Not without wanting something in exchange. “I'll see. I have stuff to do.”

The man didn't say good bye, just tilted his ragged newsboy hat and off he went.

To this date Louis still remembers the sharp pain on his sore knuckles when a merciless icy whiff hit them and he instantly decided to check out the place on the card. On that day the Northern wind didn't smell of promises, more like of burnt timber and lamb stew, but it definitely whet his curiosity in some way.

He wasn't naïve enough to believe he would be the next big boxer, and for sure not the next Ali, but what if Simon was his passport to a less miserable future?

-

In 1974, when Louis moved to Manchester, he was nineteen. Before moving he had already quit school and was working his arse off since sixteen on a colliery back in Doncaster. The job was exhausting, more than anyone who hasn't worked in a coal mine could ever imagine – his lungs would probably be damaged for life because of all the fumes and damps.

The laughable part is, working conditions apart, Louis hadn’t stopped working there because he resigned, no. He was bloody dismissed. They gave all the miners the boot because the pit was being closed out of nowhere. _That's it, thanks for all the years of hard work, you worthless scumbags, but we're letting you all go._ Or something like that.

So Louis decided to to try his luck in Manchester. It was a risky move, everyone knew that the city was no better place than its satellite small towns.

On one hand crime rates were ridiculously high; violence and unemployment were endemic. On the other hand he didn't have enough money to pay for a train fare to London, only as far as Manchester. So Manny it was.

He spent all his luck as soon as he arrived there because, as much as Hulme is, in fact, a terrible place to live, his block of flats wasn't that bad. It was his first pick, but the complex was fairly okay. The neighbours were even welcoming, given how much they have to offer.

(Yes, Mrs. Hughes and the other ladies were probably giving him baked goods to snoop around, but then again, he got a month's worth of scones, so that was a win.)

Louis is a people pleaser, that's how he always gets to work his way through rough paths. He learnt to charm them and to adapt from young age, and it wasn't even a bother. He genuinely found pleasure being around people and especially making them laugh. His armour was being funny.

Besides, his mother always taught him that in difficult times, when things seem impossible and you cannot find a way out, familiar faces and their kindness will most certainly help you. Or at least bring some comfort.

So he developed some sort of relationship with the Hughes family and the large Scottish woman gladly takes him under her wings. The Gunns on next door are also very decent people; once they watched Louis flat the whole afternoon when he forgot his door unlocked and the fact that he still has a television is thanks to Caroline Gunn.

Louis doesn't own much, though. His tiny flat is equipped with a black and white telly, a bed and a useless cook top. His closet doesn't hold more than five pairs of trousers and a dozen shirts. He had been working on underpaid jobs and sending home a massive sum of his wage for four years now.

To be fair to Simon, it's been two years since Louis had started fighting at The X and although he's not a thousandth as rich as Muhammad Ali, at least now he has quite a regular income – last year the boss even gave him some 'medical assistance' money to pay for rent when he got two ribs broken by The Payno.

Simon Cowell's gentlemen's club, The X, is not a place for gentlemen _at all_. It's on the basement of a crumbling and desolated Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. It's amusing because it's a cliché, but Louis liked the secretive vibe the first time he visited. Feels like something exclusive and it's probably how The X ties up its regular customers.

If you get the stairs down to Ping Hong's basement you'll find a ring. That was what Louis instantly spotted that night two years ago when he first set foot there. Under the dim light Louis took in the whole club. A horde of a hundred men religiously surrounded the elevated wooden structure and the mats on the floor were blood stained and falling to pieces.

The X smelled like a day's worth of sweat, tobacco and warm ale. The bar was on the far left, flanked by neon signs and dusty football pennants. There was also a jukebox playing muffled Bee Gees. Louis could feel his shoes sticking to the filthy floor.

The audience was constantly shouting encouragements, and they roared louder when one of the boxers hit his opponent on the chin. There were a couple of bookmakers with notebooks taking the bets and an alarming lack of women.

The atmosphere was very manly and... alluring. Weirdly, Louis didn't feel like an oddball.

“Hey mate, wanna have a flutter?” an Irish bookie with bleached hair suggested, shaking his notepad in the air. His smile was very convincing. So convincing that Louis was already reaching for his pocket to scrape some pennies. Simon tapped his shoulder just in time to avoid the bet, asking:

“What you think, son?”

“Hi,” Louis said, surprised and short of breath, somehow too overwhelmed. “Mr. Cowell.”

“Call me Simon, please. Niall, would you fetch Louis something to drink? Pint?” he asked Louis, who was still astonished by the treatment. Simon was being so nice that it was almost... tricky.

“Yes, sure, please. Thank you.”

Simon didn't beat around the bush as he sat Louis down at one of the few tables in the basement, though. At the same time as he smoked a cigar, the businessman explained in between puffs that The X was an illegal gentlemen's boxing club.

They have regular fighters who received training before getting into the ring. Sometimes they will invite boxers from other clubs and do special nights, but the combats between his champs, as Simon putted, were half staged, half genuine, whatever that meant.

(Louis came to find that that meant they would still properly fight, but avoid hurting each other too badly).

What really got Louis, though, was the wage. It was... insane. He huffed out a scornful laugh when Simon told him the amount because it was three times more than what he was earning at the construction site he was working at that time.

And that's what made him accept the job. He didn't give two spare thoughts before saying 'Yes' and shaking Simon's hand, of course he didn't. Living the way he did - _surviving_ the way he did, was already too much of a risk. He could handle a broken nose for nine hundred quid.

That day Louis went home with a sense that something good could happen. Usually he wouldn't allow himself to feel these silly things. Hope. Self satisfaction. Happy thoughts. But the last two years haven't been bad for him, not really. He's quite grateful to Simon for the opportunity. Yes, his once perfect nose is now slightly crook mended and his ribs still hurt when he sighs too deeply, but you can't ask for it all, can you?

Besides, the thrill of the fight pays off. He truly likes boxing. The seconds in the corner that preceded a fight, when Louis jumps on his feet more for theatricality than for warming up, waiting for the sign, those seconds will always make his blood boil.

There would be without failing a buzz in his ears as he passed the ropes and then he would become uneasy while stepping under the flickering lights of the ring. His short shorts would get into his bum cheeks in a quite uncomfortable way and the smell of people smoking would creep inside his nose.

But it was the bell ringing for the calm of the battle settling down. Then, it was blinding fury and studied movements, trying to predict his opponents moves before they could do it.

Louis always dances around them and diverts with a mocking loud laugh. He throws punches with a smirk tinted on his thin mouth and scorns when they miss a blow. It's a strategy, you see, to mess up with their nerves until his adversaries lose their minds.

Watching Louis fighting is a spectacle because he not only boxes fast and sleek, until he's glistening with a thin varnish of sweat, but he also pisses around the arena, saying something cheeky to the audience like “Didn't you wish you have betted on me?”. For that reason, he's known as _The Rogue_.

He's good mates with Liam, one of the boxers in Simon's gang, and with Niall, the mad bookmaker that cracks up even at Louis lousiest jokes. They are all alone in a big decaying city that wants to devour them alive, so they inadvertently team up and refuse to let loneliness or Manchester knock them down.

In a way, The X becomes home. It might not be cosy per se, but it's familiar. Nothing changes much from that night two years ago when Louis became a boxer to these days; same old football pennants, same old tunes on the jukebox, same old ragged mats reeking of sweat...

Well, nothing changes much except from Harry.

-

The first time he sees Harry at The X is on a cold night in December. It's a rainy Saturday by default, if you consider that this is Manchester. Louis has David Bowie's new song, Heroes, ringing on his eardrums the whole day, after listening to it on the radio that morning.

He hums the melody under his breath all the way to the club as he rushes along dark haunting streets as fast as he can. It's 5PM but the sun is long gone, leaving just an orange glow on the border of the world. At this time, no one would risk coming out of their stuffy houses without a good reason.

That evening Louis is fighting the first combat of the day: The Rogue vs. Mash N' Bang! – that is Josh's ridiculous nickname.

As usual he gets to the packed changing room and throws a roll of offences meant as compliments around: “That purple eye is looking good, Payno” and “I heard it’s nice to wash our hair sometimes, you know? You should try it, Andy.”

Niall, who takes great pleasure helping out the fighters with pre-fight shoulder massages and holding up their robes as they dress, was already orbiting Louis:

“Ready to crush some bones?” he asked arching his eyebrows excited.

“Honestly, Niall, what do you take me for? I wouldn't _dare_ bust up Josh's pretty face,” he jokes sending a wink at his opponent direction.

“Yeah, right... As if you're not the littlest of the shits.”

“Not sure if that's a valid expression,” Louis mocks as he undresses. “Anyway, tell me the stakes are high tonight.”

“Why the fuck would you care? 's not like you'll gain any more money.”

“I care that I'm popular, knobhead. You're a terrible bookie, Niall. I'm telling, Simon. You're supposed to _get people to gamble_.”

“Excuse you, who got Bobby 'Scrooge' McPhee to bet a hundred quids on you last night? And everyone knows his fist is tighter than your fecking arseho... Sorry,” he stops on his tracks when Louis darts out a threatening glance, “no sodomy jokes.”

“Good boy,” the boxer says demeaning, fixing the hem of his red boxing trunks and then patting Niall's yellow head when the bookie starts helping Louis to put on his gloves. “Now seriously, how's your eye, Liam?”

“Getting better,” the good natured man says shrugging. He's sat on a bench against a peeling wall sipping on a mug of coffee. “That ointment works wonders.”

“Told you it would. You two wanna hit the cinema tomorrow? There's this American film, Star Wars, Star Battles, or something... 's suppose to be nice.”

“I heard it's brilliant!” Liam exclaims because he's very into spaceships, comics and those sort of nerdy things. “I'm in.”

“Me too,” Niall says finishing the tying up and having a look at his watch. “Now would you hurry?”

Louis gives him a pointed look, but when he realises Josh vanished and must be on the sides waiting for him, Louis shoves his plastic mouthpiece into his mouth and mumbles a 'Fuck you' to Niall just for the sake of it.

The house is only half full since it's still early, but they cheer loudly as Louis climbs up the stairs. The fighters touch gloves and then Louis is warming up, watching Josh doing the same on his corner, when he notices someone getting in the ring as well.

The bloke struggles with the ropes when his foot gets tangled in them, but Louis spots an amused pearly beam on his face. The stranger has a piece of cardboard on his hand and when he holds it up it shows a bold number one in red. Only then does realisation finally hit Louis.

He's counting the rounds. The man is a... ring boy. Louis head is spinning because what on Earth is happening? Why would anyone think it's a good idea to have a grown arse man carrying the round signs? The audience is equally stunned, though, because the place is uncommonly quiet.

Ring Boy circles the arena with some sense of pride and at same time he must be doing silly faces or something funny to the audience because some laughs start to bubble from below. Louis is dying to know who this nutter is.

When the stranger finally stumbles to his side of the arena and locks eyes with Louis for the first time the world certainly stops spinning. Louis can even feel inertia working, his knees suddenly wobbly because of the ground's abrupt shift.

There are so many elements to take in – brown and luscious long hair, plump and impossibly red lips, light green eyes, a psychedelic shirt with most buttons undone – that Louis forgets for a couple of moments where they are. Or that the Earth is not rotating anymore.

Gravity and the axis of the planet become mere peddling when Ring Boy stares at Louis because he's... gorgeous. A vision. With his bright shirt and smile he's a precious nugget of colour in the grey gloomy background. Louis heart is rebelling inside his ribcage for a stranger.

Then, as if played by the destiny, or maybe as a wake up call to stop Louis from daydreaming, Ring Boy stares back at him and trips.

It's funny, sure it is. The cardboard sign slides across the ring and his long limbs spread on the mat like an octopus as he falls. He exclaims a faint “Oops!” and the audience is in stitches.

But at the same time... it's absolutely endearing. Ring Boy is chuckling on the ground, shaking his head in mocking disbelieve, and is it just Louis or does the man light up the whole club? He's about to help the stranger when the man stands up by himself with some sort of spare dignity, rubbing his big hands on his flare jeans to clean them up.

Louis is still thinking that Ring Boy looks like Mick Jagger, but cuter, has Paul Newman's eyes, but deeper and dresses like that bloke from Led Zeppelin, but sexier, when the bell rings.

The last thing to pop on his brain before the calm of the battle fogs all his senses are Bowie's verses: _'We can beat them, for ever and ever/Oh, we can be heroes, just for one day'_.

-

Of course Niall knows Harry. After all, the Irish is friends with everyone: regular customers, Olly, the bartender, all the fighters and the handsome boy that Louis is obsessed with.

“Who's the Ring Boy?” Louis asks after his fight, spitting blood in the bucket Niall holds for him.

“Who? Harry?”

Louis looks at him dismissively, feeling his face swelling on the side where Josh dropped a dizzy left punch. It must be noticeable, because Niall hands him an ice bag.

“Harry is Simon's nephew, I think. Or something along those lines.”

“He doesn't look related to Simon,” Louis mutters against the bag, stretched out on the bench in the changing room. They watch as Andy and John get ready for the next fight. “But that doesn’t explain why he was making a fool of himself up there in the ring.”

“Nah, Harry's nice. I bet he was doing it for the laughs, he's a cheeky lad, that one.”

“Is he now?” Louis asks but Niall never gets to answers it. Instead, Harry himself is entering the room, flanked by a sinister punk bloke. Louis heart skips on his chest and it's ridiculous. So, childish and silly, but Harry is even more beautiful up close.

“Niall!” he shouts, and then jumps on the bookie, all limbs and perfection.

“Styles, ya rascal!” Niall yells back and Louis tries to ignore the tiny tug on his guts when Niall reaches up to mess with Harry's flawless hair. “What you think you were doing up there?”

“Just having fun... Simon isn't mad, is he?” Ring Boy Harry asks.

Louis is so, so glad he's still lying down because Harry's voice is _deep_. It's a slow drag dancing on his tempting mouth; a low tone spilling like honey from his lips and swirling sweetly on Louis' ears.

“Nah, I saw him at his table smirking behind his cigar. Anyway,” Niall says patting Louis heavily on the shoulder, “this is my mate Louis.”

Suddenly the boxer realises his state of total disarray: shirtless and drenched in sweat, with a slit on his bottom lip and a bump on his right cheek.

“Hi,” he greets sitting up and feeling self-conscious.

“Hey, Champion!” Harry replies, his smile growing even wider on his pleasant face. He has a couple of crystal necklaces dangling against his bare chest and loads of mood rings crowded on his fingers, like an outdated hippie. “This is my friend Zayn,” he announces to everyone in the room, but eyes still stuck on Louis.

The punk rocker doesn't move, he merely flutters his dark and long eyelashes and blinks a few times. Under all the chains, leather jacket and eye make up Louis can tell the bloke is even more striking than Harry. Louis wonders how they've became friends when they look like opposite ends of life's spectrum.

It's funny how just now Louis notices and gets to study Harry's mate, when Zayn's definitely a character too: he sports a pointy mohawk and has a safety pin pierced to his nose. He looks more ragged and threatening than any of the tough guys on the club; he exudes danger, but somehow the bloke still manages to be magnetic.

“I'm not a champion. I _lost_ today,” Louis prompts when the silence in the changing room stretches for too long because he's good at that, yeah? Lightening the mood.

“But I've heard all about the legend that is The Rogue,” Harry says arching his eyebrows and popping his already big eyes as if he really means what he says. Louis is kind of shocked.

He asks unsure, “You've heard... about me?”

“Harry, what have you done?” Niall jumps in. He's such a mood killer. “Louis loves attention and he gets plenty already. Now this will get to his head and...”

Louis interrupts Niall, peeved, “I'm _quite aware_ of how brilliant I am anyway. But thank you very much, Harry,” he shoots a soft look to Harry and then switches to Niall, burning him with a pointed glare. “It’s very rare to get some support around here.”

“Oi, I was just now holding up a bucket so you could spit blood in it! How can...”

“Are you two always like this?” Harry asks baffled, seeming too overwhelmed by the quick banter exchange.

“They are usually worse,” Liam pipes in out of nowhere. Apparently Louis is surrounded by traitors. “I'm Liam 'The Payno' Payne.”

Harry promptly turns in his direction to shake hands. He's so polite... Louis is enamoured. “I'm Harry... erm, just Styles.”

“Harry Just Styles? Nice nickname,” Liam jokes, shaking hands with Zayn as well because nobody had time to tell him that the punk bloke is not too prone to human interaction. Zayn snorts at Liam's silly joke, though. Maybe this is the beginning of a rosy friendship?

Harry watches the exchange with a fond smile. It looks like he never stops smiling. Louis doesn't mind that the slightest. He could watch Harry doing the most mundane things for the whole night, if he's being honest to himself. Harry's such a character.

“What's a hippie doing in an underground illegal boxing club? Aren’t you suppose to be a pacifist?” Louis asks genuinely intrigued, but also a lot teasing because somehow he always gets away with mocking strangers.

“I'm not a hippie,” the boys answers simply, shooting him a bright and not offended smile.

“So what, you just fancy wearing clothes from ten years ago?” and maybe Louis is overstepping, but he has a feeling that Harry Just Styles is nice enough to not mind banter.

“They aren't ten years old,” he answers looking down at his own outfit as if he's noticing just now what he's wearing. He's lifting one of his brown suede boots and his tongue is poking from between his teeth when he says smiling, “I've got these shoes only two weeks ago.”

Louis barks out a delighted and surprised laugh. “Cheeky, aren't you?” he states still chuckling, even though his cheek hurts.

Harry is staring at his face, and Louis is sure it's weirdly shaped and all sweaty, but he can't help but stare back. The boy has incredibly plump lips and they are so rosy that you can swear he must be wearing lipstick. Louis is still watching Harry's mouth when the Ring Boy announces:

“Well, it was lovely meeting you but I'm afraid we must go.”

“Man, you have to promise you won't go missing again,” Niall protests. “You can't... evaporate like that.”

“I won't, really” he says sounding genuine, giving the blonde a hug.

“We hope not,” Niall chirps, “right Louis?”

Now, what is _that_ about?

“Yeah, sure,” Louis agrees caught out of guard when Harry shakes his hands as a goodbye – his palm is warm and a tad bit damp. “I could use some support here, you know?” Louis adds matter of factly, arching his curved eyebrows confidentially.

“Already your biggest fan, Champion,” Harry replies cheeky, winking at him and leaving before Louis can even catch some air back into his lungs.

-

As promised, Harry is there the next week. The X doesn't open on Sundays because Manchester still believes in that provincial maximum that demands saving the day. In fact, the city is a contrast of decadence and sexual perversion against orthodoxy and fake morals.

That's probably one of the reasons why Harry immediately becomes so enticing to Louis. He's like those tiny little daisies that insist on blooming between the cracks on the pavement. Nothing seems to corrupt him, not even Manchester's bleakness.

On the next couple of weeks Louis gets to know more about the man and... he's charmed, to say the least. They hang out in the changing room before or after fights, talking about silly things to distract Louis and Liam.

In the ring, Harry is a bubbly mess. He's clumsy, extremely clumsy, as if he still hasn't figured how limbs are supposed to work. He trips almost on every combat, but he's probably so used to it that he only smiles unfazed while people take a piss on his expenses.

If it's Louis in the corner, he will also mouth “Good luck, Champion” topped with a wink. It's very distracting and not helpful at all. Or maybe it is, because Louis thinks he fights better when Harry acknowledges him.

To be honest, the boxer is quite sure Harry is the best thing that ever happened to The X and it's not only because Louis might have, kind of, a little bit a crush on him. Even some grumpy patrons know the ring boy by name, especially after that night he'd thrown roses to the audience for no apparent reason, saying “Spread love, spread love. You're all so beautiful.”

Louis' slight obsession also makes him dig for all the different bits of information that he can gather about Harry. He finds out through Simon that the boy is twenty and from a middle-class family from a small town in Cheshire. Simon is not related to him, just a friend of his parents that promised to help Harry to settle down. He moved to Manchester last September for University, where he studies Law and Business.

The conclusion that Harry is the nicest person to ever grace this planet, well, Louis figures that out by himself. The best quality of quirky, colourful, hippie Harry is his cheekiness, though. Anyone who manages to keep up with Louis' level of sass deserves to be immediately rewarded. With a kiss, if possible.

“Hm, I was thinking of juggling on the breaks to entertain the patrons,” Harry says on a Thursday night when they're waiting for Louis’ fight to begin. On his propaganda white shirt you can see scribbled with a blue marker _'Stop Ethio-Somali War'_ and it's so... endearing. Louis is so gone for this hippie.

Harry is sat beside the boxer and doesn't seem to mind that Louis' bare thigh, escaping from his red shorts, keeps bumping against his. He keeps saying, his drawl more prominent than usual: “I've been training lately and I'm getting quite good at juggling. Zayn's my witness.”

By the corner of his eye Louis catches Harry's friend discreetly shaking his head, eyebrows furrowed in mock confusion. He doesn't come as often as Harry, but tonight he's there looking mysterious as usual, in a ripped shirt in which you can clearly read _'The Queen can suck my dick'_. Louis wonders if he should write something across his naked chest too.

“So, you're saying you're good with balls, Harold?” Louis asks because he can't let sexual innuendos pass by.

Harry stares at him with a half-smirk and Louis can _hear_ the gears in his brains working on a witty comeback. “I'd say so...” he finally replies, “but only if a pair or more are involved. I'm shitty at football.”

Louis laugh is so loud that customers eating in the Chinese restaurant upstairs can probably hear him.

“Would you two stop flirting?” Niall scolds, popping his head inside the changing room. “You're distracting him, Harry. He's supposed to be concentrating...”

“Someone is jealous...” Harry says bumping Louis on the shoulder and wiggling his eyebrows in the most ridiculously cute way possible.

“ _Niall's a jelly cry baby,_ ” Louis sing songs very obnoxiously.

The Irishman rolls his eyes from the door and Zayn joins him when Harry starts singing, _'Niall's a jelly cry baby'_ too.

“You two are impossible...” the bookie gives in, shaking his head in surrender. “Harry, they need you there to hold the round signs, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah, I...” he hesitates, looking at Louis helplessly and maybe something is wrong? Harry suddenly looks quite disturbed. “Hold on, I'll just... Damn!”

“Mate, go,” Louis says patting his back.

“No, it's not...” he ruffles his hair, shaking it like a wet dog and then slicking it back to place. “Louis, can you wait after the fight? I wanna talk to you.”

“Hurry!” Niall yells irritatingly. Louis is going to murder him in his sleep.

“Wait for me, please,” Harry pleads one last time before Zayn is dragging him back to the ring.

There's a growling beast in Louis stomach that don't go away, not even after Andy's succession of hooks aimed straight to his guts. He can't stop wondering what Harry must want with him and, being the pessimist that he is, Louis can't hope for anything but imminent tragedy.

-

In the end, Louis somehow got to knock Andy down. It was a rough fight; they lasted for eight rounds and Louis eyebrow is cut, spurting blood no matter what he does. The next combat is The Payno vs. El Toro, a new Spanish guy that fights like an uncontrolled bull.

It ends in less than two minutes, a new record time at The X. Liam throws a punch straight to the other bloke's nose and he staggers back, dizzy and cross-eyed, before fainting. The audience goes mad.

Harry is still buzzing when he gets back to the changing room, but he shrivels when he spots Louis miserable, bloody brow still running.

“Hey Champion, why the long face?” he asks rushing to sit in a stool across Louis. Harry's bellow Louis' eye level, so he has to look up with impossibly green and big eyes to pep the boxer. “You won today. And it was brilliant!”

“I can't make this _bloody_ thing stop... being bloody.”

Harry laughs commiserated and pats Louis thigh in sympathy. Then he reaches up to take off the dirty cloth from the wound and have a look. He's so close to Louis face, lips parted in concentration as he analyses the cut concerned, that Louis forgets how to function for ten whole seconds.

“It's not that bad. We only have to apply some pressure and we will be just fine. I think you'll survive.”

“Not thanks to _Andy_ ,” Louis adds sour, glancing at the other fighter who's getting ready to leave. He flips Louis off as he storms out. “Anyway,” he says looking down at Harry again. “what was that big important talk you wanted to have?”

“Oh,” Harry exclaims, tensing up reflectively and compressing Louis' wound too hard. The boxer winces and Harry smiles apologetic. “Sorry, sorry! But yeah, well. Hm, I was thinking... You know, we've been friends for a while now and...”

As Harry babbles and rambles Louis is becoming more and more nervous because maybe Harry will ask him to stop with all the touches and... sissy stuff. Like, you know, _'Hey mate, fuck off, I'm not queer'_.

Louis have been there a couple of times, when friends get uncomfortable because he doesn't know the concept of personal space. It would be such a pity to lose Harry's friendship. But he doesn't interrupt the ring boy.

“We get along, yeah? I think we do. And I... I was wondering, erm,” he clears his throat and focuses on some point next to Louis chin. “If wouldn't be a bummer, would you... Would you like to go out tomorrow?” he finally spurts.

Louis is gobsmacked. And so, so relieved. He could hug Harry right now and spin him in the air like they do in those cheesy films. Why was Harry so nervous about _this_? He's _so_ silly.

“Go... out?” Louis finally asks, still not entirely trusting his ears.

“Yeah, I mean, it isn't much of a deal...” Harry explains gesticulating wildly, bumping twice Louis on the knees.

“Okay…?”

The smile on Harry's face is so bright that it could keep Europe light for a whole week. Louis heart swells on his chest because he's responsible for that, isn't he? Harry is happy because of _him_. His cut eyebrow doesn't matter a thing right now. “Okay you're going or okay...?” the ring boy asks unsure.

“Ok as in let's do it! Who else is coming?”

“I don't... know?” Harry replies and he's... weird. Taken aback. Hesitating again.

Louis ignores it and, looking around he realizes they're alone in the room. Harry is still sat down across Louis, almost between his legs. Does he realise how _compromising_ this position is? Louis doesn't let his mind run too wild because he can't. He shouldn't.

“Can I invite Niall and Liam too?” he asks to ease up the tension that fills the room all of sudden. “They'll be unbearable next week if they find out we hanged without them.”

“I'm sure they would...” Harry agrees nodding, his tone a note deflated. “But yeah, you can invite them. Zayn might join us as well. Maybe.”

“Will he? Ok then, tomorrow will be epic,” Louis says standing up to get changed.

He's feeling charged and alight because his crotch and Harry's mouth were in the same vicinity and that won't do. Louis's only human, for God's sake! Tonight he will probably, maybe, for sure, dream with lips made of rose petals. Again.

“Sounds like a plan, Harold,” Louis wraps up, putting on his blue shirt as fast as he can and buttoning it up.

Harry smiles a not very genuine smile and for a tense quiet moment that stretches for too long they lock eyes. Louis is still holding the third button of his shirt, squeezing it on his fingertips so hard that it might leave an impression.

Harry is the one who snaps out of it, “I better get going, classes start at nine tomorrow.”

“Ugh. Have a good night, ring boy,” Louis teases one last time, in the hopes to warm Harry up at least a tad bit.

“You too, Champion.”

When Harry looks up from his brown suede boots with a small but what seems authentic and uncontrolled smile, that's when Louis feels like a true winner.

-

The weather is dreadful on the next day. The wind makes a nasty sound under the doors of decrepit council houses and the unoccupied ones, some mere ruins, look particularly haunting that night.

Louis strolls under the pouring rain craving a cup of tea and one of Harry Styles cuddly holey jumpers. He passes by drenched and deplorable rent boys and furtive dealers that offer him all sorts of tempting escapes from reality.

There's a tornado alert, but everyone still manages to get to The X. The rush in the club is very poor for a Friday, so Simon calls the last fight off – which, luckily, was Louis' combat – and they all can get home early.

“I don't suppose we're going out after all?” Liam asks after he spills his mouthpiece into a bucket, drying off sweat from his neck.

“Unless you want to risk getting windblown just to chat up some birds...” Louis pokes fun, always keen to getting on Liam's nerves.

“I know I wouldn't mind being blown,” Niall chirps, smirking.

“Oh, God...” Harry and Louis groan at the pun at the same time, turning to each other, giving a high five and laughing in their own bubble.

“Oh God says _I_ ,” the Irishman complains sour, his pride sore. “You two are proper disgusting.”

“Why don't we go to mine?” Harry suggests, squeezing Louis' knee in a way that he probably _knows_ Louis won't be able to refuse. “We can... I don't know, listen to some of my vinyls, play a board game. Zayn's probably home with the fire on.”

“That actually sounds quite good, Harry,” Liam says finishing to lace up his heavy boots.

Louis is light-headed because Harry's fingers curl up in his trousers very distractingly and his thumb absently caresses Louis' leg sending sparkles all the way to Louis' spine.

“We also have liquor,” Harry adds matter of factly.

“Now we're talking,” Niall agrees, jumping on his feet excited at the prospects of the night. They all turn to Louis, the natural leader of the pack, waiting for the final word.

“Brilliant! Off we go,” he barks out, voice caught on his throat because Harry won't let go.

Louis wants to tell him _“Boy, you're playing with fire”_ but, instead, he grips Harry's hand on his leg and squeezes his long spidery fingers. Louis' arousal must be written all over his face because when Harry turns from the boys to smile directly at him his face drops and his Adam's apple bobs as he dry swallows. Good, he has to stop with all this teasing.

Outside, the rain turned into a raging, lashing storm. It's a wall of water and you can't see an inch before your nose, just grey. The Chinese red lamps dangling over Mosley Street dangerously swing in the air with the force of the wind.

The streets are all theirs, there's no one in sight, not even night workers. It's cold, so bloody cold, and Louis can already feel his bones getting soaked under heaven opening over their heads.

Niall and Liam wear raincoats and for some reason they think it's a good idea to jump in puddles. Liam is laughing that laugh of his that gets to his eyes and Niall full on crackling, rain drops falling inside his mouth everytime he throws his head back.

“Where's your brolly?” Harry teases loudly over the sound of the rain, noticing that Louis doesn't have an umbrella and deciding to use a Mancunian slang because he's just that endearing. He approaches the boxer with the remains of a joyful smile that he was wearing as he watched his friends being idiots.

Louis sticks his tongue out at him and he knows it's quite childish, but that's what Harry brings out of him. The hippie boy squints his eyes in a failed attempt to look threatening, but he bursts out a laugh and hugs Louis by the shoulders, bringing him under his umbrella regardless.

“You'll get a cold,” he murmurs, so close to Louis that the boxer can see his breath misting in the air.

“I'm used to it,” Louis mutters back, surprised by how soft his voice comes out of his mouth, by how his lips quirk in an uncontrolled smile. Why are they even whispering? Why does he feel so happy that he can't even control his body?

It's like a star dying on his chest, a supernova exploding until it reaches all the confines of the galaxy.

“Still...” Harry replies pulling him even closer, his fingertips digging into Louis toned biceps.

They walk down the street like that, plastered by each others sides, Louis stealing some of Harry's body heat as they watch Liam and Niall kicking water on each other like a pair of toddles.

The fur on the collar of Harry's ridiculous fringed coat tickles Louis on the neck, but when the ring boy asks, still in that confidential tone, “Is this okay?” Louis simply nods, even though he doesn't quite get what Harry meant. It doesn't matter.

Everything is okay, isn't it? Manchester is all theirs and they are still so young. And yes, unruled, reckless and broken, but the wet air smells of something fresh. Maybe the showers are washing away their constant state of despair to give rise to auspiciousness?

Louis hopes so. What he knows is that he's surrounded by people he wants to be with. He knows his heart is galloping on his chest like wild horses on a sunny green prairie, and that Harry is still there, holding him down to the ground.

There's a promise in the air, of warmth and cosiness, and something that resembles falling in love.

-

“Hey, lads. Fuck, you're all dripping. Get inside,” Zayn says as soon as he lands eyes on the four of them in his doorway. “I'll get towels.”

Louis is still stunned because that's the most Zayn has even spoke and who'd knew he’d be a mother hen just like Harry? His floppy mohawk and the lack of metal spikes and chains all over his body is also uncanny.

Their flat is, as expected, quite peculiar. It's a tiny crowded student habitation. There are several posters stick to a wall, like a massive collage with The Clash posters, graffitis of anarchist symbols and swear-words and such.

They have a sick lava lamp that keeps Niall hypnotised for good twenty minutes. You can see Harry small touches on the potted fern hanging from the ceiling, enduring the harsh winter against all odds; on a small table there is a statue of a Hindi goddess; a toy windmill on the windowsill.

“Make yourselves at home,” Harry says and, as casual as he can be, starts stripping.

Louis is instantly hit by the realisation that he have never seen Harry with lesser clothes, even though the man is on the changing room all the time, because there wasn't a real reason for him to be naked. Until now.

Following the cue Liam and Niall don't even think twice before taking off their clothes too and Louis knows he should do the same, he really should. But Harry's white vest is tempting clinging to his chest and his shoulders are as broad as airplane wings and so very drool worthy.

“Towels,” Zayn announces making Louis jump where he's ogling Harry pulling off his bell bottoms jeans. Louis is grateful for the distraction, he really is. He dries off his hair and face, grunting in frustration into the towel because Harry's down to his pants just a few feet away from him.

“Who wants dry clothes?” Harry asks, towel wrapped around his waist. Was his torso always _that_ long? Louis wonders.

“Maybe just a shirt,” Niall says.

“I'm fine,” Liam tries, always polite.

“Nonsense,” Harry dismisses them, and touching Louis on the shoulder, he asks, “Slacks too?”

“I... Don't you bother, Harry,” Louis says, numb and hyper aware at the same time. Harry should leave. Immediately.

“Oh, shut up you three,” he says dismissing their politeness before turning on his heels and walking towards a small hallway that must lead to his bedroom.

The three remaining lads turn to Louis as soon as they hear Harry's door slamming.

“Are you ok?” Liam asks cautiously, as if he's talking to a snake about to pounce.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because Harry was down to his pants and-”

“I don't see why this fact would have to do with anything,” Louis cuts, not very eloquently, but it'll have to do. “Can I have another towel, please?” he asks in a sharp tone.

“Uh, sure,” Zayn says handing him a blue towel that Louis wraps on his head like a turban. “You can put your wet clothes on the radiator," the host informs. "Who wants some tea?”

-

Much against common sense, they decide to play Monopoly. Zayn has a well worn edition of the game and some words are even faded, but they settle the board on the coffee table anyway. After tea time all the guests are warm and dressed again, looking particularly funny wearing Harry's clothing.

Louis fought Liam over a fluffy looking lavender jumper and now he's happily swimming in the wool and lounging on the armchair. Harry keeps sneaking small glances at him from across the room, and Louis wonders if he's abusing his hospitality, but he's too comfortable to care and sit up straight.

They munch on crisps, cheese and crackers and gulp chilly beers which is likely the definition of heaven for Niall. In fact, all of them are so at home that Louis heart swells on his chest in a sense of fulfilment and exhilaration. Their small friendmily welcomed two new members as if they always belonged.

Just to break his soft heart, everybody protests effusively when Louis asks to be the banker. Even Harry, the little traitor. So Louis doesn't settle for any other token that isn’t the battleship and at this point his friends are already sighing in frustration, feeling that this night will most certainly not end up well.

Zayn snatches the dog, apparently it's his lucky charm, and Liam and Niall get the top hat and the racing car, respectively.

“No one, literally, _no one_ ever chooses the thimble,” Louis mocks Harry, unable to stop himself when the rig boy chooses his token. “It's like... leftovers.”

“I like the thimble, it keeps us from pricking our fingers.”

“As if we sew or shit.”

“Harry does,” Zayn says scratching his nose to hide away a smile. Louis is fondly staring at Harry's smile and dimples, thinking that, of course, this weirdo angel sews, of all things. He's just this quirky beam of sunlight that came from behind gloomy clouds to illuminate everyone's life and...

“Louis!” Niall calls out obnoxious, shaking the pair of dices in his hand. “Can we start yet or...?”

“Oh, shut up. Don't get cocky just because _you're_ the bloody banker.”

“My Spider-Sense is telling me this game is going to ruin friendships...” Liam mutters under his breath, earning a goofy giggle from Zayn for no apparent reason because it wasn't even that funny.

One hour later Liam's premonition seems to be about right. Louis made up a catchy and rather annoying song that they sing every time someone goes to jail – _put, your striped jumpsuit on/you, are going to prison/don't, waste your phone call/or go cry, on the wailing wall_.

After three beers Zayn is tipsy and comfortable enough to smugly fan himself with the cards he’s collected. From all people, Liam is the one taking the game more seriously, especially picking on on Niall because: “What kind of banker doesn't keep their notes organized?”.

(His suspicions are quite justified because Louis might have caught the Irishman illicitly passing some pounds to Zayn under the table.)

“I still think we should consider creating social houses, for a better, more equal...” Harry tries to say, but is interrupted by a collective groan.

“And I'm still raising your rent, sweetheart,” Louis says batting his lashes and taking a sip from his bottle.

“Ugh, you're such a capitalist,” the ring boy complains handing over the money and dragging the touch of their hands for more than would be necessary.

Forty more minutes have Niall and Harry declaring bankruptcy. After a trip to the loo, Louis goes back to the battlefield that was the living room to find Harry sat on the armchair he was sitting before, wearing a minxy smile that says _'Don't you dare kicking me off'_.

Having manners as he does, of course Louis would never shoo the host away, so he squeezes besides Harry and throws a leg over his. Harry doesn't seem to mind at the slightest, actually shifting and fussing until Louis is proper tucked under his arm.

Louis might have became more loose after all the beer and he should consider this whole cuddling thing before he does something even more stupid but the thing is... Harry is a giggly, clingy drunk.

Two rounds pass by without Louis realising; did he even rolled the dices? All he can concentrate on and breath in is HarryHarryHarry - the name a hypnotic chanting in the boxer's brain. He's heavy leaning over Louis and he smells of sandalwood. His cheeks are rosy and his face so, so close. It's absolutely distracting.

He buries his face in Louis neck when Liam and Zayn engage on a fight over Leicester Square and his breath tickles Louis to the soul. It's driving him insane.

“Hey, can you help me sort out my fortune?” Louis asks in an attempt to distract himself from Harry's overwhelming presence.

“Sure,” he complies, letting go of Louis shoulder, grabbing the wad of fake money and starting to separate it in several neat piles.

“Harry,” Niall calls from where he's standing next to the turntable, “can I put on a record?”

“Please, do.”

Pink Floyd's ‘Animals’ starts to play a short after.

“You have a sick collection,” Niall comments. “Fleetwood Mac, Stones, Bowie... Bob Marley, he's genius!”

“I dig Heroes,” Louis joins in.

Harry perks up by his side as if stung by a wasp, “Do you? He has killer cheekbones, doesn't he?”

“I suppose?” Louis shrugs, because to be honest he has never had much of a thought about David Bowie's cheekbones.

“I think Louis looks a tad like him,” Niall adds slurring, grabbing Louis by the chin and tilting his friend's head to analyse his face. That obviously earns him slap from Louis; who does Niall thinks he is? He can't just grab Louis' face just because he's drunk – even if he's comparing Louis to a popstar.

“Louis, it's your turn!” Zayn rebukes from where he's sitting, looking stressed instead of his usual unfazed self.

“Yes, could you please pay attention to the game?” Liam agrees, and look at that. They teamed up to piss Louis off. They are a pair of annoying nerds.

“You're a pair of annoying nerds,” Louis says out loud, and being the bastard that he is, he gathers all his quids Harry so carefully separated and throws them in the air.

“What the fuck?” Zayn hisses, fuming under the paper rain.

“Lewis!” Liam exclaim standing up in his fighting stance in a very threatening way.

It's all worthy when Harry and Niall crack up laughing, though. Harry throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut and long hair reaching the middle of his back and Louis wants to kiss the column of his throat. So badly. Violently.

He feels all fuzzy inside, like something tingling on his guts and bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. It's so insane that he wants Harry that much, even now, when he's practically on the boy's lap; but he does. He needs Harry in any way he can get, desperately, because when you find something special you can't just let it go.

“You're such a sore loser,” Liam declares upset.

“You're still my champion, though,” Harry whispers against Louis hair when the energy dies down and the notes stop raining. Louis doesn't know if it was meant for everyone to hear or if it was one of those intimate moments of theirs. He decides to not comment, saving it to himself only.

After, Louis is obliged to pick up the game all by himself, as “a punishment for being such a cry baby cunt”, as Zayn put it. They decide it's safer to limit themselves to get shit faced and chat over music.

At some point Pink Floyd is replaced by Queen, and then Stevie Wonder and after that Ramones for Zayn's sake.

Harry is soft and pliant after more beer, an arm draped over Louis' shoulder as he hangs off the boxer. Louis is positively sure he himself has a blissful drunk smile on his face that he can't wipe off. He absently plays with Harry's necklaces as they discuss nuclear war surviving plans with Zayn.

“I'd definitely hunt and stock up some pigeons,” Louis confesses rolling crystal beads on his fingers, feeling from times to times his knuckles bump on the fur on Harry's chest.

“Ew, Louis,” Zayn says puffing on a cigarette, laying on the floor. Liam's loud snore from the couch interrupts their conversation. “I've heard you're supposed to wear as much layers of clothes as possible to prevent Beta burns,” Zayn continues.

“What on Earth _are_ Beta burns? I thought you were a cool anarchist but you're a nerd just like Liam.”

“Can you stop saying we're nerds? Having interest in science and astronomy doesn't-”

“Are you quite finished?” Louis interrupts rolling his eyes. Harry chuckles underneath him, bumping his head into Louis' shoulder in what's supposed to be reprehension for being rude. God, he's so silly. “I wouldn't mind having to wear this jumper all the time, though,” Louis comments, running a hand down his own chest.

“You can keep it if you want,” Harry offers selflessly, as if he gives his clothes away all the time. He probably does.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Louis scolds tugging on his necklaces, both condemning and flattered. Harry's eyelashes flutter with the movement, head going easy when Louis pulls it.

There's a tense moment when both of them don't seem to know what to do, but then Harry answers in a low, charged, sultry tone, “I mean it.”

Outside the tornado harasses the city mercilessly, the late night not its usual silent desolated self. However, inside of the flat, as Grateful Dead's Box of Rain coincidently plays on the background, _'they walk into splintered sunlight, inching their way through dead dreams'_.

-

In two weeks time Christmas is at the corner. For the second time since Louis moved to Manchester he's going home for Holidays, but something is off. He feels like he should be more excited, not having seen the girls and his mum for three years now, but there's a sense of abandon, as if he's leaving something behind.

It must be because his friends are planning the Christmas party as usual, regardless if he's going or staying; or maybe, just maybe, it's because of the new additions to said group of friends. Louis obviously won't call off his trip to Doncaster, but when he hears Harry is responsible for the baked goods he feels very tempted to drop his family Christmas – it did not help that the ring boy is known for bragging about his ginger nuts biscuits.

On their last day in The X before the break Louis has all the lads Christmas presents in his rucksack and he feels almost anxious about handing them out after the fights. The five of them are meeting at the pub just down the street, so Louis can cry about turning 23 in three days and so he can say his proper goodbyes.

He's on the third fight of the night, and after he wins it with quite some ease he heads for a quick shower. Louis waits in the changing room watching telly and relaxing with a cuppa as Liam is up in the ring.

Half an hour later all the four boys break into the room in a thunderous mess. Niall is giving Harry a piggyback for no apparent reason while Zayn and Liam are on their heels in one of those murmured conversations they seem to have all the time. Louis can't help but think he's going to miss them this week away.

“All set to go home?” Niall asks nudging Louis after he drops Harry on the bench by the boxer's other side.

“Not much to bring, I suppose,” Louis replies, shrugging.

“What about gifts for the girls?” Harry asks looking at Louis with those big curious eyes. He looks wonderful today in an almost sheer black shirt, as usual, merely buttoned, white striped black trousers and a hat perched on his well groomed soft mane. Louis wants to reach out and touch him somewhere. Anywhere.

But instead he just answers, “I'm gonna buy 'em there. Got yours, though,” Louis says unabashed with a sly smile, as if he gives him gifts all the time.

“What is it?” Harry asks excited, grabbing Louis' by the wrist.

“I'm not telling you now!” he exclaims indignant, but doesn't do any effort to detach Harry's long fingers from him. They barely notice Liam excusing himself to the showers or Niall and Zayn discussing whatever's on on the TV. Instead, Louis practically whispers, flirty and sneering, “Do you want to spoil all the fun, Styles?”

“But, Looou,” Harry whines, and Louis can't believe Harry's charm is working, but that pout... Lord, that pout.

“Just wait so we get to the pub, yeah?”

Harry nods, not very convinced, biting down his bottom lip and making his cute dimple pop out. That's when Louis decides he can't hold back anymore (even though he has been avoiding being too clingy after the get together at Harry's – and failing miserably most of the time, mind you). He grabs the brim of Harry's hat and playfully taps it down until it covers his eyes. That earns him a smile and an elbow nudge.

“I didn't get you anything,” Harry admits, slicking his hair back on place and fixing his hat and it's... hypnotic. It's so captivating the way his fingers drag across his scalp and how the brown locks slide smoothly under the touch. Louis finds it absolutely alluring how Harry flexes his arm and his biceps stretches under the sleeve until it looks about to rip it. He's still watching spellbound when Harry snaps his fingers to wake Louis from his daydreaming, “Louis?”

“Oh! Sorry, I... I don't mind,” he stutters ducking down his head, blushing and wondering if Harry noticed. What's this boy doing to him? He _never_ stutters! “I mean, you don't have to buy me-”

“I know, but it's your birthday too,” Harry interrupts, playing with a loose thread of his shirt. “I should-”

“Nonsense, just putting up with my shit is-”

“Stop saying that, I love having you aroun-”

“Could you two stop with the declarations of love and hurry up?” Niall, always him, interrupts. “Liam's ready.”

They don't even bother denying anymore, but Louis still sends murderous looks at the back of Niall's head as they leave the room because the Irishman knows how to be annoying.

The walk to the pub is short and when they get there it's not too crowded. Niall works his magic and gets them a table in the back garden. Harry and Liam go grab them the first round and the first toast of the night is in Louis' honour. The second dedicated to their friendship, the third for Baby Jesus Birthday and after the fourth they lose count.

Harry bugs Louis about his gift the whole night, but Louis is enjoying the ring boy clinging to him too much to give in. When Niall reaches out inside his pocket to get four matching bracelets to one he's already wearing, Louis can't postpone anymore.

“Friendship bracelets?” Louis asks mocking.

“Sick!” Zayn exclaims, always sort of out of character when he's tipsy. “Love ya, Niall,” he says, wrapping the blonde head into a crushing hug.

“Help me with mine?” Harry asks turning to Louis, already holding his loose around his wrist. Louis might take longer than necessary to tie it up, but he's drunk and his vision is getting blurred so nobody can really blame him.

“Thanks, Nialler,” Liam says hugging him too.

“Yeah, yeah, just bought 'em from a bloke outside, Arndale, and though you'd like it,” the bookmaker says embarrassed, drunk rosy cheeks getting five tones more red. “Merry Christmas, motherfuckers.”

“That was quite jolly of you, Niall,” Louis snickers reaching for his bag under the table. “Now, since I won't be here for the most important day of the year – that would be December 24, my birthday – I come bearing presents!”

Zayn rolls his eyes because Louis is shouting and Liam perks up on his stool. Harry claps excited as if it's the first time he ever heard about Christmas gifts. God, Louis loves his friends.

“Ok, you all know I'm broke so... I've only got you some silly small things, yeah? Liam, here's yours,” Louis says handing him a Batman figurine that he thinks Liam's going to love. “Got you something nerdy too, Z.”

“Louis! Thank you so much, mate,” Liam says squeezing him into a half hug.

Zayn don't even say anything when he unrolls his ‘The Tomorrow People’ poster with a smile, just rounds the table and hugs him too. Louis fumbles with his bag again, taking out ‘The Eagles' Hotel California’ vinyl to give to Niall.

“No you didn't!” Niall screeches as he rips the wrapping paper like a child. “That's... mental! Ya fuckin with me! Ya bastard, you fucking love me!” he yells not even bothering going round, just throwing his arms at Louis' direction across the table.

Harry has been unusually quiet since Louis started playing Santa. When Louis full attention is on him again the boxer notices that Harry is practically knotting his finger nervously on his lap and it's absolutely lovely. Louis won't admit, but he's nervous too because Harry's gift was a long shot. It's definitely not the one he spent more money in, or the one with most sentimental value, like Niall's bracelets, but Louis is hoping Harry will, first, appreciate the joke; and second, not take it as a joke and _actually_ use the gift.

Louis holds the small package and the card against his chest one last time before giving them to Harry. He's beaming as he carefully opens the reindeer Christmas paper, but his smile wavers when he catches the rubber boxing mouth guard and holds in the air for everyone in the table to see.

“Wow” he says high pitched, failing miserably at hiding how bummed he is. “Thanks, Lou.”

Louis is sure he's smiling fondly when he replies, “Now read the card.”

Harry opens the envelope and, as his green eyes scan what Louis scribed in it, his face gets more and more illuminated until he's smiling so big that it looks like Harry's face is about to split in two. Louis can't hold back a smile of his own, and he takes a sip of his lukewarm pint to hide away his stupid fondness.

“What does it say?” Liam asks, already trying to read over Harry's shoulder.

“Heeeey, piss off! It's my gift!” Harry protests.

“Boohoo, a bloody boxing mouthpiece,” Niall mocks.

“It's not just that” the ring boy says, glancing at Louis side-eyed with a smirk. Louis winks at him before he thinks it through.

“Okay, even I am curious now,” Zayn admits throwing his hands in the air in defeat. “Come on now, Harry.”

“It's nothing,” Louis comes to the rescue, “leave me boy alone.”

“No. I'm gonna tickle him unless he says what the fuck it is,” Niall says arching his eyebrows in a poor attempt to look threatening.

“It's okay, Lou. I can tell them,” Harry says, but looks at Louis waiting for the man to nod. “Louis gave me a coupon that says: Five free sessions of boxing lessons with the spectacular ‘The Rogue’,” he tells them while smiling radiantly.

Their friends look at them astonished and emotionless, as if it's the stupidest thing they've ever heard. Maybe it is, Louis thinks, but Harry loved it and that's what matters.

“That's it?” Zayn mumbles.

“Good for you, Hazza,” Liam says, and Louis knows his tone is forced when he adds, “Gonna learn how to throw some punches, I heard The Rogue is the man.”

“Actually,” Zayn interrupts, and he's fussing with his ragged rucksack that has more safety pins than the punk's whole outfit. “I've got something you lads too. It's- It's not much.”

Louis wants to punch Zayn when he gets one of the crumpled sheets of paper the man is offering him. How can he be so modest? It's brilliant. Zayn drew each of them a caricature version of themselves. Each of the drawings has a balloon with something funny inside and the resemblance is canonical.

Louis' says: “You don't wanna argue with me, love” and his tiny figure has boxing gloves and a crown. There's also a banner at the bottom that says _'King of the World'_   that has him cracking up loudly. Harry's says _'Walking HAZard'_   which the ring boy loves because of his fixation with puns and Niall's and Liam's say, respectively, _'Life of Any Party'_ and _'Real Life Superhero'_.

“Last round's on me since I didn't bring anything,” Liam shouts already getting up and strolling to the bar.

Niall is still praising Zayn for his “mad skills”, holding him by the shoulder and saying stuff like “Shit, mate. I never knew... ya a legend, you know?” too close to Zayn's pretty blushing face. And Louis could be a knob and tease them, just like Niall seems so keen to do with him and Harry. But then the ring boy is nudging Louis on the shoulder and muttering, “Hey, Champion. Thanks. For the gift.”

“You really liked it? I- I know it's rubbish but I thought you'd appreciate it somehow,” Louis confesses turning around to fix him with a meaningful stare. Harry is watching him back with lazy eyes and a half smile that looks impossible to wipe off. After all the pints, Louis himself is feeling all fuzzy inside, loose and warm. And it's crazy, it's wintertime and they're outside, Louis shouldn't be feeling warm. Or falling in love.

But Harry has this terrifying power of his that makes Louis forget about everything else, from weather conditions to reasons why he shouldn't encourage whatever they have going on. It's like a magnet pulling Louis in, or maybe something more soothing, like the tide. Harry and his marine eyes are like the sea, dragging Louis to the deep end until he can't even breathe properly.

“I loved it, Lou,” Harry says in that slow drawl of his, and Louis thinks that he wants to bathe in Harry's voice. Or something. It makes more sense in his fogged by the alcohol brain. “You know,” Harry goes on, “I really meant it when I said I like spending time with you. I'm gonna use all my coupons.”

“Yeah?” Louis manages to ask, merely a puff escaping from his mouth.

“Uhum,” Harry hums nodding. His hand slips under the table to touch Louis on the thigh and it's definitely not the first time he does this, but it feels different. Usually Harry plays it off as a gesture he does while distracted, when he's talking or something, but now... Now it's private, and so full of intention that Louis squirms on his stool.

Later Louis will check if Harry's thumb has burnt any holes on his trousers, because sure it feels like it. The heat radiates right from above Louis' knee joint till the very tip of his big toe and it feels bloody brilliant. Louis decides that Harry should always be touching him. Or maybe not, because if just over the trousers already feels like that much, he can't even imagine what skin to skin contact would do to him. It's so silly, he hasn't felt like this since he was a teenager, and back then he had hormones to blame.

Harry is still absentmindedly rubbing Louis leg when he asks, “You think we can start the lessons tomorrow? Or are you leaving to Doncaster?”

“No, I'm free. All yours,” Louis adds before he can't even think, and he regrets it only for two seconds, because Harry is beaming and nodding back at him. “Hm, can we meet at, let's say, half past two at The X? I think Marlene, the cleaning lady, will be there.”

“Sure. I can't wait to debut my mouthpiece.”

“Don't think I'm going to go easy on you, Styles,” Louis teases slapping the hand that is on his thigh and then leaving it there because he's feeling bold and alight and he's only human, ok?

“I'm not. Can't wait for you to kick my arse,” the boy says chuckling and wiggling his eyebrows stupidly.

“What are you? A masochist?”

Harry shrugs unfazed, not dignifying Louis with a response. Instead, he flips his hand palms up and intertwines his fingers with Louis'. They hold hands for the rest of the night, and as Louis feels Harry's warm hand on his, heavy and relaxing, he can't stop thinking that Harry not answering is for the best. Louis probably wouldn't handle the answer to that question. And is not as if they need to add more fuel to the fire.

-

The next day Harry shows up with his shoulder length hair styled in two side braids. Louis is waiting for him inside of Ping Hong because it's drizzling and, just for a change, he doesn't have an umbrella. The stuffy air smells of lo-mein and greasy dumplings and Louis wonders why he has never eaten there, when it’s literally just upstairs from The X. When not long after Harry steps into the Chinese restaurant, bearing braided hair and tie dye top, Louis has to do a double-take.

“Hello, hippie Harry!” he greets when he recovers from the shock.

“Hull'o li'uh Lou,” Harry says muffled and just then Louis notices. Harry's got the mouthpiece on. Such a dork... He spits it out, though, and repeats smiling, “I said 'Hello, little Lou.'”

Louis is already making his way down to the basement, but he stops in the middle of the poorly lit stairway to call out, “Never say that again or I'll shave off half of your hair.”

“How am I suppose to braid it, then?” Harry protests cheeky, hot in his heels.

“Hm,” Louis considers when they finally get to the club. He grabs the end of one of the tiny braids pretending to be deep in thought and is it his imagination or did Harry stop breathing? “That's a valid observation, Harold. They are, indeed, nice braids.”

They are staring at each other, Louis still playing with tip of Harry's hair, when the cleaning lady, steps in.

“Ok, less talk and more action,” Louis coaches cheery, clapping his hands as if he knows what he's doing. “Hop up into the ring, Styles. And try not to trip on the ropes, yeah? Gonna grab us some gloves.”

“Who do you take me for?” Harry exclaims pretending to be indignant. Why does he keep being so cute and making Louis life so hard. “Me? Tripping?”

“Are you going to be Mr. Funny Pants or can I actually teach you how to box?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says in surrender, so Louis finally leaves to get all the equipment they might need.

When he's back Harry is standing in his semi naked glory, wearing only a pair of bright yellow short shorts and holey trainers. He puts Harry to jump rope for five minutes and when he finishes he's glistening in a layer of sweat under the flickering lights of the ring. Thoughts of rubbing him down clean pop in Louis brain without his permission, but then again, Harry's back is obscene, sue him.

“Is it over?” Harry asks panting, holding onto one of the corner posts to catch his breath back. Louis laughs delighted, trying to ignore how sexual so many things are sounding. He can't go there, he refuses.

“Not even the beginning, love. But let me show you the most important foundation of boxing: standing in position. Now, put on the gloves,” Louis says throwing a pair at him, “shall we?”

He helps Harry tie them up and then the ring boy is standing right on the centre of the place he generally trips around.

“Can't I skip the mouthpiece? Don't wanna drool all over you,” Harry says, and Louis thinks he wouldn't mind Harry fancying him.

“Ok, show me what you've got,” Louis says, and Harry stares at him clueless before standing like an idiot, hunching and pigeon toed as always. “Goodness me. Ok, first,” Louis directs as he stands behind him, kicking Harry's legs open and saying, “rear foot turned outwards, yeah. For a better balance, your legs shouldn't be in the same line. Yes, like this,” he encourages when Harry is on the right position.

Louis thinks twice before holding Harry by the hips, right where the band of his yellow shorts meet his soft sides. They've never been this close before, not with so little clothes and it's suddenly so... hot and stuffy. Sultry.

The boxer can't help but remember how warm Harry hand was on his yesterday. Even Harry's typical sandalwood cologne is hearty and it seems to fire up Louis' insides all the way from his nostrils to the pit of his belly. Feels like Summer again and the whole world is yellow, ablaze and sunny.

It's funny how Harry's presence is a balm, calming and grounding. But at the same time leaves Louis restless and excited. It's a good thrill, it makes his blood boil with the right amount of adrenaline and anticipation. He loves hanging on the verge of an unknown precipice, might as well fall to something rewarding.

“Right,” Louis croaks leaving Harry's love handles to hold him by the wrists. “Put your fists like this. Yes, good. You're gonna use them to protect your jaw, yeah?” Harry throws some punches in the air scrunching up his face unsure. “Elbows glued to your torso to protect your ribs,” he instructs holding the boy by his joints and fuck, they are so close.

“That's a lot to remember.”

“I know. Now we're gonna start moving, ok?” Harry nods in response and Louis can feel the lovely and silly braid tickling his cheek. It sends shivers right to his spine. He's gone. So damn gone. “Don't bend your knees. Instead, you're gonna shift your weight from the back to the front leg. Yeah, like this, swinging. Almost like dancing.”

“I'm shit at dancing, Lou,” Harry whispers turning around, and Louis can see the slope of his nose and the swell of his plump lips, just one kiss away.

“Somehow I'm not surprised,” Louis mocks. Harry is laughing, the sound booming on his ribs, and Louis can feel the tremble even on his own chest. That's the cue to back away. “Ready to finally throw some punches?” he asks facing Harry again, putting a safe distance between them.

“Yeah!” the ring boy cheers, sounding like a kid excited for the first day of preschool. Who even is Harry Styles?

With training focus mitts on, Louis is all business. He tells Harry, “Aim on them, not my face” and Harry laughs but almost hits him twice. Besides some other incidents the ring boy is actually surprisingly good. Yes, his balance is shit, but he's strong and has a powerful jab that makes Louis grasp when he almost can't hold the blow. Harry giggles delighted and Louis is sure the boy is going to boast about it and hold that against him later.

Louis is starting to feel his arms heavy and Harry looks proper tired, when Marlene, the cleaning lady, interrupts them.

“Oi, Louis? I'm leaving, dear.”

“Already? What time is it?” he asks startled, and for the third time that afternoon Harry nearly hits him square on the nose.

“Quarter to four,” the woman says. “Happy Holidays, yeah? I'm leaving the padlock of the gate upstairs unlocked, don't forget to turn off the lights. Merry Christmas, boys! See ya!”

They watch as she leaves and when Louis turns to Harry again he notices that he's spent. There's a huge smile on his flustered face, though, and he looks gorgeous. His braids are unkempt, some strands escaping from them, and his eyes are on fire. The other lads can laugh and mock them as much as they want, but Louis can tell just by looking at the happy beam of light in front of him that he nailed his Christmas present.

“Lou, thanks for that...” Harry says short of breath.

“You welcome, mate!”

“... but I think I may be dying.”

Louis laughs and taps the boy on the back in solidarity, feeling the damp and hot skin under his palm and thinking that all he wants for Christmas is Harry and the warmth he has to offer. Unfortunately Louis isn't quite sure he was a good boy this year. Not when he can think of a dozen naughty things he wants to do with lanky and clumsy Harry right on those stinky mats underneath them.

-

It took him some time until Louis could finally put his finger on the buzz about Manchester. He came to find that, if you managed to blast off some of the soot on your head and shoulders, and to ignore the constant drizzle falling like annoying tiny moths over you, all the decaying scenery could be beautiful in a way. That's what he thinks as he watches the city through the window train. Or perhaps Louis missed some things that stayed behind when he left to Doncaster a week ago.

So, it's really a pity that just when Louis learns to love the city it's on the heydays of Chief police James Anderton's moral crusade. In 1976 Anderton was appointed chief constable of Greater Manchester and one of his first acts was a drive against pornography. Bookshops, newsagents and warehouses had their stocks confiscated. A total of 160,000 sinful magazines were burnt down by hell flames.

Night clubs and brothels were the next targets. The X was obviously in danger, being a place where workers go after a hard day to unwind and to desecrate their souls. Simon had to raise the sum he paid monthly to Ping Hong's owner to keep the greedy Chinese old lady quiet.

Suddenly all the fun and distractions that overwrought citizens used to have were forbidden, cut in root without any warning. Now late night activities to common people were restricted to lay in bed and watch roaches climb the walls or something equally dull.

James Anderton was supported by the National Front, one of Britain's far right political parties. Since he was nominated the Guardian of Manchester's peace and order, ironically, several protests erupted. The chief police stepped on many toes; University students, gay rights activists, workers unions and all sorts of liberals didn't see him with good eyes. Despite Anderton's efforts, crime was still endemic and the population was just growing more and more unhappy kept on his tight leash.

The first protest of 1978 is due to happen on January 13th and meant to be massive. Different classes of minorities are supposed to take part in it and on the very day the city is bubbling with the hush-hush of a rebellion.

The activities in The X are back, though not in full force. Some boxers are still on a break and Harry has been weirdly absent since Louis came back. The ring boy doesn't show up at least a couple of times a week, and as much as Louis understands that it's an unpaid job, that the student does mostly for fun, he can't help but miss the hippie.

Louis assumed Harry was busy with exams and uni work, but then on the second Friday of January Zayn crashes into the basement of the Chinese restaurant and rushes Louis out of the ring in the middle of a training session.

“It's Harry,” Zayn says, and Louis immediately drops everything.

“What's wrong?” he asks muffled while biting the string of his gloves and undoing the tie.

“He's at the protest.”

“Which protest?”

“You've got to be kidding me!” Zayn groans stressed. “The riots that are happening today! What world are you living?”

Louis ignores his rudeness because they have more important issues to discuss now. “I don't understand, Harry has been in loads of these things-”

“I know, but I was at uni today and heard some talk about the police coming down hard on the protesters today. Basically, it’s going to be a massacre.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. He follows Louis to the changing room and is now watching as the fighter jumps out of his shorts and into warm clothes again. “And the Harry we know must be right on the centre of these riots, megaphone on hand and everything. He's an idiot. They were meant to gather at Deansgate at 11 AM and march along Chester Road to the Police Department.”

“But that's... almost in Old Trafford, innit?” Zayn nods, and Louis suddenly realises that his friend never told him what he expects Louis to do. “Why are you calling me, though? To come with you?”

“Because you're probably the only person Harry will hear.”

“Am I?” Louis asks tying up his shoes. He doesn't hear Zayn answering anything, but when he looks up the punk bloke has a scoffing expression on his face. For the second time that morning Louis lets Zayn go with his insolence and, instead, just puts on his winter coat. Only because it’s an emergency. “Off we go?”

They run along small streets and Louis just follows Zayn because he's probably taking short cuts. Even from distance you can already hear faint chanting, but it's just an indistinguishable rumble at the moment. The weather outside is ice cutting and Louis can't feel his face because of the wind harassing it. But at least it’s not raining.

The two of them cross the canal, rushing alongside it for a couple of minutes before Zayn starts taking some more turns. As they progress, the mass of people seem to thicken up. They pass by Deansgate but the protesters are already marching and they only find belated slow walkers there. It's the end of the walk, and it doesn't come across as unsafe for Louis.

All it takes to realise the shift in the atmosphere, though, is some metres into the crowd. There's a rioting buzz in the air and Louis is suddenly surrounded by people anywhere he looks. It's ridiculously loud and, although Louis is right in the centre of the turmoil, he still don't understand the slogan. He can see Zayn's dark mohawk in front of him, but it's impossible to walk without bumping on people. It's claustrophobic and intimidating.

Louis looks around, counting the number of police officers, and he notices that they are in an odd oppressive formation, like sheepdog guarding an unruly herd. He's starting to get skittish; he can feel his heart racing and he knows it isn't just because he was running. It's difficult to make up faces, people pass by before his eyes as a flash of mouths retorted in imperative shouts and fists bumping rhythmically in the air.

Losing his way in the crowd is quite easy, and even though Zayn keeps checking on him from times to times, looking back to see if Louis is following, a while after they were swallowed by the horde Louis finds himself alone. He was watching a fight break out between three girls and a dozen of policemen, amazed by how fierce and unstoppable the women seemed to be. They were so angry and feisty. Louis almost intervened, but then they were apprehended and handcuffed and when the boxer looked around Zayn was nowhere to be seen.

He was lost. He didn't know what to do, where to go, and it was crazy to think of Harry taking part in this pandemonium too. Harry is so... delicate, somehow. Not physically, even though he tends to trip in thin air sometimes, but he's so innocent. Uncorrupted. Unblemished.

“We are decent! We are decent! We are decent!” Louis suddenly can hear the masses shout and he can't help but let himself feel involved, heart bumping at the same rhythm as the chanting, the clamour lightening a fire under his skin. They represent him too. He should be revolted as well.

Since his favourite disco was closed in Canal Street at the Gay Village six months ago he never went there anymore to chat up cute blokes and to try and take them home. More than once he was stopped to be frisked, even when he was just walking down the street minding his own business. His neighbour, Mr. Crawley, had his small pub closed down because he didn't had a license and was now living with the help of others. So yeah, he should be indignant and raging too.

There are people with all sorts of signs; a punk lad, that for a moment Louis thinks is Zayn, has one that says _'Porn is great, so go fuck yourself, Chief'_ and the person beside him is with a _'James AnderTURD'_ one. A couple holds up a banner that says _'How very dare you?'_   that have Louis laughing in the middle of a riot. There's still a hostile and tense overtone, though. Some more conflicts break out, one so violent and involving so many protesters that Louis' pushed against a brick wall.

He can hear the officers shouts of, “That's private property, scumbags!” and “Sir, put down the petrol bomb”, just before the bloke holding an incendiary bottle throws it in the direction of an improvised barricade the police just formed. It's chaotic. Louis can't stop thinking about Harry, wondering where he must be, if he's in some kind of trouble, and for a moment, blinded by the smoke of the artefact, Louis panics.

He's moving away from the mess frantically, coughing and running into people. Louis is a block up Chester Road when he finally finds Harry and he's sure his heart stops. Harry is well. He's well and holding up a sign that says _'Chief Anderton is a tool'_ , which is probably the least offensive of the whole rally, and Louis wants to laugh with fondness, he really does, but he's just so relieved.

Before approaching Harry he sighs loudly, pressing the heels of his hands on his eye sockets until they stop stinging and until his heart starts beating again. He was so worried. Jesus, he didn't even realise he was that concerned. But now he's watching Harry shouting, “We are decent!” wholeheartedly and Louis wants to slap him for making Louis so nervous.

Instead, he jogs in his direction, bumping into people getting in his way, and Harry doesn't notice him until Louis is standing right in front of him.

“Champion?!” he exclaims loudly over the chanting and Louis instantly forgets that he was supposed to tell him off.

When Louis talks what he was planning in his head, it comes off too affectionate to be a proper scold, “Harry! For fucks, sake! I was so worried.”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks bending down to whisper it in Louis' ear. They stopped moving because the mass is too dense and they are practically chest to chest.

“I came to rescue you,” Louis yells in his ear. “Zayn heard the police were coming down hard and- come with me,” he orders, deciding he'll explain later and that right now he just has to take them out of there. He holds Harry by the wrist and drags him out of the pandemonium.

“But-” Harry tries to protest, but he keeps following Louis to an open area where they can finally breathe and hear each other. Louis never wanted to kiss him more then at this very moment. Not when they were cuddling in an armchair in front of the fire, not even when Harry was down to his shorts, all sweaty and muscular on the ring.

Louis needs to kiss him right now because Harry is passionate about his beliefs, and Louis is so bloody proud of him. Louis needs to kiss him right now because Harry is looking at him confused yet grateful because Louis is there for him. Louis needs to kiss him right now because moments ago, when he was alone even surrounded by people, his mind was running straight to Harry, and the thought of a world without him was just gloomy and tasteless.

This urge is so inappropriate, given where they are and how Louis isn't sure about how Harry feels about him. There are some times, when Harry brushes knuckles on his thigh or smiles like Louis is holding up the sun, that Louis thinks he might not be alone in this. But then again, Harry is always playful and cheeky, and he tends to flirt with everyone, so if Louis misreads the signs he will destroy their friendship, and Harry is too precious to lose.

His mind is rushing a thousand miles per hour. He's thinking of green eyes and long legs, quirky clothes and booming laugh, dimples and braids, low tone saying 'Champion' and love handles, when the mayhem implodes.

What seemed to be punctuated small conflicts that the police quickly took control, suddenly turned into a generalised commotion and, no matter where you looked, you would see officers hitting people with batons or restraining them to the ground, face down in the asphalt. Louis only realises he still has Harry by the wrist when the man detaches from him and runs in the direction of one of the tussles.

“Let her go!” Harry yells, and Louis have never seen him this mad. There's a policeman holding down a woman with grey hair, and even Louis is pissed. “Let her go right now, she's an old lady!” Harry screams again.

“Sir, back off or I'll arrest you. This is an order,” the officer says calm and collected.

“No, leave her alone,” Harry grunts, and with that he jumps on the back of the policeman. Louis is so stunned for a couple of seconds that he doesn't react. The officer is by himself, his colleagues too busy dealing with other protesters around. When he gives in under the weight of Harry and falls the woman breaks free and rolls out of the mess of limbs that is the two men wrestling. Louis helps her up and rushes her off. When he turns around to see what Harry is up to, the police officer is sitting on top of him, trying to catch Harry's untamed fists.

The boxer is fuming, and he doesn't know if he's a bit jealous because of the position or if he's just furious because the man is daring to touch Harry. He's seeing red and all rational thoughts fly right off the window, because Louis doesn't think a millisecond before he's yelling “Hey, wanker!” and punching the policeman with a powerful hook that throws the man completely off of Harry.

Harry is laying down on the road looking at him with bewildered popped out eyes and Louis chuckles. On the ground, the officer is unconscious, but when Harry straightens up the man is sitting dizzy. Louis offers his sore hand for Harry to hold and he's beaming as he takes the tiny strong hand into his giant paws.

They sprint for their lives, doing zigzags and cutting people off, not looking back to see if they are in fact being chased. As they turn into a cobblestone street Louis is just praying to Harry fumbling legs don't fail them now. _Please Styles, control your limbs_ , he thinks.

“Why are they beating people up?” Harry asks short of breath from behind, letting Louis lead him. “This is a pacifist protest!”

“I have no idea, Harry, but I don't fancy stopping to ask.”

Harry laughs and squeezes Louis hand inside his, and Louis loves him. Loves the adrenaline of the chase, loves the thrill of doing something quite illegal, loves that Harry is in that with him. “Fuck, Lou!” The boy shouts excited too. “That punch wasn't very peace and love of you.”

Louis can hear the grin on Harry's voice, but he waits until they pass a group of shirtless women that are setting wooden pallets on fire to reply.

“Thanks God I'm not a hippie like you, then,” he says turning around to glance at Harry for the first time since they started to flee, and it must be irony of destiny, because Louis is about to throw him a wink when the tip of his shoe gets stuck in a grout and he's falling on his back, pulling Harry down with him.

Hissing, Louis closes his eyes trying to sublimate the pain in his lower back. He can feel Harry on top of him and when he opens his lids again he can't hold back a smile because the boy is hovering him concerned, eyes wide again.

“Lou,” he calls in a small voice, and Harry's hand is so soft on the side of his head that for a moment he forgets the riot surrounding them. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. My bum broke the fall,” Louis jokes. Harry gives him a crinkled smile mere inches above him. Shit, he's gorgeous. Louis is about to say that out loud, because he probably fell on his head and suffered a mild concussion, when Harry is yanked from upon him with a yelp. Next thing Louis is also forced up, twisted to face the nearest wall and handcuffed.

“Louis! Louis!” Harry is shouting from his left, sounding desperate.

“I'm right here,” he assures when they're escorted side by side by two policemen. Harry puts on a sorry face, but before he can say anything they are shoved into a school bus with all the mobbers arrested. On a brighter note, at least they going to jail together.

-

There's no clock in prison. Which is quite obvious. But what Louis realised was that you lose all your sense of time when you're in a protest and get thrown in jail with the boy you fancy. Which means that Louis has been locked up for an indefinite amount of time, scared off his pants because he doesn't have a penny to pay for a lawyer, but at least Harry's there.

They aren't on the same cell but across each other, so they can still chat. Harry even explains to him exactly what he was doing in the march. It's one of his long rambling stories, “A friend of mine, Nick, his family has a disco in Deansgate and the police nearly closed it down twice and they are always driving the customers off, so, you know, it was my duty to protest, as his friend and regular of _The Bulge_ ”.

He also tranquillizes Louis, saying he has been arrested before, as if it's no big deal. Harry uses his phone call to ring his sister, Gemma, who studies Law in Sheffield and apparently have bailed him out of jail “at least a dozen of times. I'm quite a regular here too”. Sometimes Louis still can't believe Harry Styles is a real person, walking about this world just like normal people do, even though he's far from normal.

You hear a lot of absurds about prison. After all, that's where bad guys from Charlie's Angels are sent to. Louis always thought that what preceded an arrest was a scene straight out of a James Bond film, with car chases, shootings, karate fights and everything. Instead, he's locked up with a dozen of hippies that believe deodorant is non-compulsory and the only thing he has on his pocket now is a not so badass story to tell his grandchildren. Prison is boring.

After what feels like one hour or two they even get their very own female version of Niall. Amy is on the girls cell, right beside Harry's, and when food arrives, in what Louis supposes is dinner time, the brunette almost throws a party:

“Fooooood! I'm starving.”

“Don't get your hopes up, it's prison food,” Harry jokes, and the girl laughs loudly before shoving a piece of bread on her mouth.

“Mate, grub is grub anywhere,” she states wisely, and Louis would agree with her if the sweet corn on his tray didn't look so disgusting. “What's going on with you and the other lad there?” she asks Harry, nodding at Louis direction and fixing him with a blinding smile before eating another bit of her bread.

“Who? Louis?” Harry asks dumbly, and Louis wants to hug this dork who sometimes sounds like he's still learning how to live in society. “We're here because of him,” Harry jokes. Nevermind, Louis thinks, the ring boy deserves a kick right on his nuts.

“Say what?!” Louis yells from across the hall, and she bursts in another laughter. Jesus, could she be any more similar to Niall? “Excuse you, Styles, I'm only here because of _your_ skinny arse. I've had a clean record before today.”

“You sort of overreacted, Lou. I wasn't a damsel in distress or anything...” and Louis can't see him, but he's sure Harry's rolling his eyes. Ungrateful little rascal.

“What's the deal, though? Between you two?” the girl interrupts before Louis can retort.

“Uhh, I don't know?” Harry says muffled, mouth full of food. “What you mean?”

“Hm, forget it. Anyways, you two are cute. And I'm Amy.”

Louis thinks that they could really use some femininity in their group, and he even considers adopting Amy to their friendmily even though it's quite unlikely to happen. Harry gets up to shake her hand although his dinner is only half eaten.

“Well, I'm sorry Amy,” Louis says from his end of the police station, picking up the carrots from his salad, “but I'm not cute. In fact, I'm very manly.”

“Never said you weren't, love. Whatever floats with your boat,” she mocks, too intimate for someone Louis just met in prison, and annoying as hell. It's even more annoying that her, a stranger Louis has never seen in his life before, can see his blatant crush on Harry and be inconvenient enough to mention it. Niall would bloody love her.

-

Louis doesn't know what time is it when he wakes up, in what seems the middle of the night, and for a moment he thinks he's on his bed back in Hulme. Until he remembers.

His head is laying in someone else's knee (there's even a spit puddle on the bloke's trousers, Jesus!) and when he sits up because the lights are flicked on Louis feels dizzy.

Then, someone calls his name. Or their names.

“Styles, Tomlinson.”

Louis stands up groggy and he can hear Harry loudly murmuring across the room: “Pst, Amy. Amy! I'm leaving, yeah? See you someday.”

“Good luck with Louis,” she mumbles sleepy, and Louis wants to say his goodbyes too, but he gets scurried away by the jailer.

“I think you know the way out, Harry,” the warden says, and Louis will never stop being baffled at this hippie weirdo.

They pass through the first gate, where another guard addresses Harry by the first name, and then there are double fire doors and they are out in the police department hallway. Outside the commissioner’s office, waiting, there is a woman that can only be Harry's sister. She looks smart in a sharp suit and pearls necklace, and if Harry hasn't told him she was still in Uni Louis would had thought she was a real lawyer.

“Told you I've been arrested before,” Harry says smug as they walk in her direction. “I'm tougher than you, Lou, admit it.”

“You're a bloody idiot, that's what you are,” Louis merely has time to reply, because then they’re facing Gemma Styles and she's smirking.

“Hi, losers” she greets, and Louis immediately likes her. “Once again Gemma saves the day. How much bail money do you own me by now, little brother?”

“Hi, Gemma,” Harry says in pretence peeve. “Nice to see you. How are you? Meet my friend Louis.”

She looks at her brother unimpressed and not amused at all, and says, “You're not funny, you know?” before dragging him into a hug that Harry goes into easily. “I just need you to remember whenever I need a favour that _I_ got your threatened arses out of jail,” she mumbles into his long hair. “Do you know what they do with pretty boys like you two in-”

“Gems!” he interrupts shoving her away outraged, and the woman just rolls her eyes. She seem to do that a lot. Harry, apparently quite familiar with the bailed out of jail routine, walks straight to the property room. He flirts with the lady behind the counter as she handles them their personal belongings and coats, and Gemma waits until they are ready to go.

“Please, don't tell mum,” Harry begs fumbling with his watch.

“Do I ever?” Gemma retorts annoyed. “Hey Louis, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she says when Harry's attention is in the officer lady helping him to strap up his watch.

“Yes, yeah, same,” Louis replies, and he tries not to read too much into the 'finally' part. “And thanks. Thank you so much. I'm sorry we've meet under these circumstances.”

Gemma grins at him, her first genuine smile of the night, and hugs him by the shoulders. Up close Louis notices how much she resembles Harry and is almost scary. “Awn, he's so polite, Harry! Where did you find this one?” She teases.

Harry beams at his sister as if she's complimenting his new puppy and Louis should be pissed, but he finds himself strangely appreciating it. The two men share a private smile and then Louis bats his eyelashes at Harry innocently. Harry shakes his head before saying indignant and smiley:

“That's a sham. Louis is the naughtiest boy in Manchester.” He sounds just happy, and as he throws his arms over Louis' other shoulder the boxer thinks Harry might be this thrilled because Gemma approved him. Good. Louis himself can barely contain his joy.

He wonders if you can explode of happiness, because even though he was just released from jail Louis couldn't be more happy than he is now, charming the Styles siblings.

“Only Manchester?” Gemma exclaims. “Damn Louis, step up your game. Okay, ready to leave?” She asks finally letting him go. Harry's still hanging from him though, his warm and solid side against Louis'. “I'll give you a lift. And I’m probably staying over, it's late.”

Outside, on the pavement, Liam, Niall and Zayn are waiting for them in the cold, bunched up like penguins, hands shoved down their pockets. The three friends wear matching mischievous smiles under the light of a lamppost. As soon as they see Harry and Louis they break the silence of the night and start singing aloud: _Put, your striped jumpsuit on/you, are going to prison/don't, waste your phone call/or go cry, on the wailing wall_.

Louis is glad people can't burst apart into happiness, or he would be nothing but shrapnel flying out of control at this point.

-

The next Saturday, The X is hosting the IV Winter Golden Glove Championship. It's obviously not a real official championship – even though they have belts and everything. Simon just invites his friend/rival Louis Walsh, owner of an illegal boxing club in Dublin, and the Irish businessman brings some of his best boxers to fight with Simon's champs. It's something the clientèle always looks forward because they rejoice in the rivalry in the air.

These nights the stakes are higher than usual and Louis always gets a little bit pressured about his performance. But he loves fighting at home – he's got his arse kicked in Dublin in the Autumn Championship in October, so it's time for a revenge. He's even more excited when he finds out he's fighting against Max George, who he public despises and who goes by the ridiculous nickname ‘The Maximum’ – now you see why Louis hates him?

When the day arrives it's snowing outside, but not enough to accumulate on the ground. The X is stuffy and packed and there's this euphoria in the air, a sense of camaraderie going around the customers because tonight almost all of them are rooting for the boxers of the house. Niall and the other bookmarker, Mark, are running around busy taking the bets.

The Rogue versus The Maximum is the fourth fight of the day and tonight, and instead of staying in the changing room chilling, Louis decides to watch the other fights. John and Liam win the first combats in relative ease – Liam struggled in the third round, but by the fifth he made Nathan Skies hit the canvas. Harry is there holding up the round signs and tripping around the ring just like he does in the usual fights, and if Louis Walsh's fighters find his presence odd, they don't comment.

By the time it’s Louis turn to pass the ropes he's feeling nervous, the thrill of the fight maximized, and he doesn't know exactly why. But it's just seeing Max's massive cunty face as they touch gloves in the middle and Louis' blood is boiling. His opponent starts jumping on his corner, grinning around a mouthpiece with a mocking smile that Louis is dying to wipe off his face.

Harry, just for a change, twists his foot on a rope while getting on the ring and Louis watches amused as the ring boy tries to untangle himself. When Harry looks up and notices the boxer eyeing him, he gives Louis a blinding smile. In fact, Harry seems to glow under Louis’ attention. At first he doesn't even bother parading around with the number 1 sign held high; he just walks straight to Louis to encourage him, “Hey Champion,” he says, and Louis is mostly making up the words as he watches Harry's plump red lips saying them, because the roar of the crowd is too loud for them to chat properly. “Good luck. I think you're... amazing. I- Yeah, good luck.”

“Thanks, love,” Louis mouths, winking and then clapping his gloves against each other. Harry giggles before finally leaving, showing the sign as he goes. Louis watches by the corner of his eye Simon ringing the bell and then Max is darting in his direction like an arrow.

It's funny how the crowd cheering immediately becomes white noise, and all his senses are acute and muffled at the same time, focused on nothing but the target in front of him. Max smells of  aftershave and beer breathe when he hits Louis with the first blow. He bobs and waves when Louis lays out a sequence, deflecting with a smirk.

They dance around each other, and because of Max's bloody smug smile Louis shouts at the crowd, “I hope you didn't waste your money on Minimum over here”, which earns him a burst of laugh from the spectators and a weak jab on his jaw from the other boxer. Louis himself hits him with a series of blows, but Max blocks them just when time's up and the bell rings.

They part, panting on their way to their corners, and Niall is right there with a bottle of water that he hands Louis.

“You're doing great!” he shouts wiping off the boxer's forehead.

“I'm going to fuck him up so badly,” Louis grunts, not even bothering to take off his mouthguard.

“Cheers,” Niall agrees, but before Louis can reply Harry is announcing round two, the bell is ringing and he's face to face with Max again.

It seems the other bloke comes to the next round determined to end the combat as quick as possible, and Louis loves that because he's the king of swerve and slip. Max drops blow after blow and Louis is defending brilliantly. His boots slide squeaky on the mats and he's doing a footwork he's been practising all week. That apparently irritates his rival because Max is blinding throwing punches and all Louis can think is _“Good. Keep tiring yourself off, you idiot”_.

Seven rounds pass by and, as much as they beat each other – Louis managed to cut Max's eyebrow open – they are still standing. Everything changes on round eight. Harry is visibly growing concerned as the fight doesn't seem near to an end. At the beginning of the eighth round he bites his lips apprehensively at Louis as he passes by him, and Max catches it.

Mid round, in a clinch longer than necessary and when the referee falls asleep at the switch, Max takes the opportunity to be his poisonous self, viciously whispering too close to Louis face, “There are two pansies here now? Is he your boyfriend?”

It's so nasty and spiteful that Louis loses his balance and takes two steps back. Because of that, the referee doesn't order them to break and step back. Max takes advantage of the gap to hit Louis with a dizzying hook that immediately knocks him down.

The world is all fuzzy in the edges and the more Louis blinks the more cloudy his eyesight gets. His chin hurts so badly that he can feel it pulsating at it's own accord and he can hear the referee counting aloof, _one, two..._ He's face down on the mats and he watches dizzy his own hand in front of his face opening and closing, as if working on its own, and that's good. At least something in his body is working. _Three, four..._

“Louis!” someone calls and it's Harry. Beautiful, glorious Harry on the ringside, watching him with big emerald eyes. Two green beacons slicing the fog in the boxers brain. “Please! Come on!” he says, reaching out to touch Louis' twitchy gloved hand. He doesn't know what Harry truly means but he so wants to do it for him, whatever it is.

 _Five, six..._ Louis hears as he props up, biceps straining with the last bit of strength he has left, head spinning around and legs wobbling so much that he doesn't think he can't do it. He staggers around and then, as if his ears become magically unclogged, he can hear clear and loud the crowd cheering, “Up The Rogue! Up The Rogue! Up The Rogue! Up The Rogue!” _Seven, eight..._

He's exhausted, but the chanting is what gets him up. When he focuses again he can see Max with his bloody, swollen face, and Louis wonders if his is in the same state. The bell goes off and the referee signals them away to their corners.

As soon as Louis sits down he's surrounded by his friends. Niall smears a towel on his face, Liam is babbling nonsense that Louis can't process at the moment and Zayn and Harry just stand there, for moral support.

“Harry, the round sign,” Niall remembers when he realises the match is restarting.

“Fuck the round sign,” he mutters and Louis doesn't know if his chest is hurting because of the way Harry says it or because Max hit him with a too hard body shot, but either way Louis will have to deal with it later.

He's dizzy again when he stands up, but then something strikes him and this time it's not the calm of the battle that he usually feels, no. It's actual rage. Louis is furious. Max George is a homophobe piece of shit who tried to play with his insecurities to win a stupid belt. Louis is beyond furious, he's fuming; he's so fucking mad. There isn't a single ounce of calm in him right now.

When he looks at Max's stupid shaved head and his ridiculous beaten up face, he's ravenous. All he wants to do is hurt him. And the best thing is, he's allowed.

Louis doesn't even dance around him, he doesn't have much energy left. He just aims straight to the other boxer's side, cornering him between a post. Louis goes straight in his direction like a derailed fuming train, uncontrolled and unstoppable. When he crashes against the obstacle, punch after punch after punch, it's with a wreckage noise of bones being crushed and flesh being smacked. He's merciless and he doesn't stop even when the other man is down.

The ref has to push Louis out of the way, taking the count again as Max lays unconscious and Louis have never felt this satisfied knocking someone out. Louis is bending down, leaning on the ropes and holding them for his dear life, feeling poorly. When the ten seconds are over, he's declared the winner and the crowd goes wild.

His arm is being held high by the referee and even though his whole face hurts Louis can't help but smile and exult in the glory of the moment. They are chanting his name as if he won something massively important and is the pride of the nation.

He can't wipe the crooked smile off of his face because there's a gorgeous boy running in his direction, looking at him as if he just hung the moon and all the stars. It's impossible to stop smiling because said boy is hugging him tenderly and kissing his ear before whispering, “That's why you're my champion”. It feels like winning the lottery and being run over by a truck at the same time. Too overwhelming and too painful. Louis wouldn't change it for anything.

-

As a celebration Harry invites Louis to Nick's disco. Naturally they have to wait for his bruises to heal – there's this nasty purple one on his waist and a bump on his head that take ages to get better, – but a week later he's almost as good as new. Or at least that's what Harry says, and since it will be only the two of them, because all their friends oddly ditched them, Louis is guessing the ring boy will be fine with his appearance. Honestly, Harry have seen him in way worse states.

It's the weekend before Harry's birthday too. They are meeting at the door of The Bulge and Louis takes the bus there against common sense because it's been snowing the whole day and the roads are frozen. He should have stayed home. Why did he let Harry's silly puppy eyes win him out?

 _“It's my birthday, Lou... Come on. Pleeeease,”_   the ring boy had said, and really, Louis was only human.

Actually, Louis thinks during the short drive watching the empty streets, if you stop to think about it, it's only been two months since they've met. Yet, it feels like two whole years. Harry has left such an impression on him that Louis is convinced he's the kind of person you only meet once in your lifetime. Harry's so peculiar, so enticing, inherently good and charming, that Louis is quite sure he'll never meet someone like him.

And it's fine if they never get together. Maybe it's even for better because Harry might not know but he has Louis wrapped around his finger. Louis has never felt this... captured by someone, and there isn't a thing in this world he would deny him.

That day of the championship, when Louis was knocked down and Harry was there for him, holding his hand and begging for something, the boxer didn't even think about the plea. He just felt the need to do it, whatever it was. The need to please Harry. To make him smile again.

If there's a person that deserves to smile every waking second of his life that person is Harry. Even because his smile is infectious. How many times had Louis caught himself smiling back at the boy despite everything? Just because there they were: a dimple in his left cheek, flawless pearly white teeth and eyes sparkling more than stardust. How can you not melt in a smile every time you're confronted by such beauty and grace?

Louis is in love. And it's ok. He couldn't have chosen a better person to be in love with. He's in love, and it's scary and promising, and he doesn't want to stop loving Harry Styles ever again.

He wants to shout it from the rooftops and at the same time keep it for himself, as a precious well hidden secret. Louis feels euphoric and at ease at the same time and it's so strange. But that's the thing about love, it's a paradox. A riddle that doesn't ask for a solution. You just have to accept it, and Louis finally came to terms with his own heart.

And that's the reason why Louis finds himself out and about only a week after having his ass epically beaten up.

It's freezing and Manchester is white and bleaker than ever. The wind is blowing in full force and only a few establishments seem to be open to the public along Canal Street. It's madness going out in this weather, but Louis is too gone for Harry to deny him anything.

The other man is waiting for him under the snowfall, looking more pristine than ever, surrounded by the fresh fluffy snow. He has a blue beanie on and a jumper under the sheepskin coat, looking cosy, warm and welcoming. They only talk when they are inside, after Harry holds the door open for Louis and guides him by the small of his back.

“Hey! How are you?”

“Freezing, but fine. You?”

“I'm quite well,” Harry replies smiling, taking his hat off. There's a cloakroom at the entrance where they leave their coats and then Harry opens the door that leads to the dancefloor and they are momentarily blinded by the bright lights.

Louis missed that clubbing vibe; before James Anderton he used to enjoy going out and getting a tad bit drunk. He used to let himself get lost in the music, anonymous in the dark crowded room, faces passing by him in flashes, until someone showed a mutual interest and invited him home. Harry doesn't let him take too much in, though, taking him by the hand and heading straight to the DJ booth.

There's a man behind the turntable and the first thing on him that catches Louis attention is his hair. It's styled in several small braids, all of them plaited with multi coloured ribbons or feathers. He wears a hat on top of them and also make up, and if Louis was still the yokel he was when he moved to Manchester he would be astounded.

Nick is still stricken, though, especially when he starts talking, “You must be _The_ Louis Tomlinson I always hear about,” he says, eyeing the boxer up. He mustn’t be impressed because the look on his face doesn't soften from the initial reluctance.

“Reckon I am,” Louis simply replies.

Harry comes to the rescue pleading, “Nick, please, play nice.”

“Harold, who do you take me for?” the DJ asks affected, and even though he seem to hold some inexplicable grudge against Louis, the boxer finds himself amused by Harry's friend. “It's nice to finally meet the hero who saved Harry's life from imminent death. Who knows what would've happened if he tripped in that march? He could have been walked over and we all know our Harry is too fond of stumbling around...”

Harry interrupts him with a grunt, which must be a common occurrence, since Nick doesn't look upset. Louis realises they are still holding hands when Nick let his eyes drag where the two other men are linked, not bothering in being discreet.

“I really mean it, Louis,” Nick says, voice tone changed to something way more serious. “Thanks for the support. If The Bulge is open today is thanks to people who were at the protest that day. Your first round is on the house, yeah? Don't get too pissed, though. Might end up doing naughty things you'll regret.”

“Thanks, mate. And, hm, I love the name of the disco. Very... inspired,” Louis teases raising his curved eyebrows sneering before following Harry to the bar. Nick flashes him a genuine smile, as if caught out of guard by Louis cheekiness, and the boxer counts that as a win.

“Okay, it was probably a bad idea to present you two,” Harry says leaning on the bar counter after ordering their drinks. “Nick can be...”

“A tosser?”

“I was going with overprotective,” Harry says, sniggering before adding, “but that works too.”

“How did you two meet?” Louis asks, only because he's truly interested in the story. Really. Louis’ not even a tad bit jealous. He's not imagining a thousands different scenarios that lead to the two of them ending up in bed. No, he's not insane. Just curious.

“Oh, actually...” Harry starts saying, but then two Maraschino Daiquiris arrive in front of them and he handles Louis his before starting again. “Actually we've met right here. I used to come over every Thursday because they have a... er... a Singles Night and then we just... sorta clicked, I don't know.”

The way Harry answers is almost too vague. It makes the green-eyed monster inside of Louis twist and turn. “But we've never... You know,” Harry mends dumbly, gesticulation effusive and as if reading Louis' mind. “Nick's like my brother. Older brother,” he adds cheeky.

There's a tense awkward silence in which they sip their cocktails and Louis gingerly murmurs a, “This' good”, but it's odd. They don't do awkward pauses. They're right in your face, straight to the point. Louis knows he's over thinking this whole situation because just now he realised they are alone, only the two of them, and what this thing might mean. But he can't imagine why Harry is all of sudden quiet.

“Let's dance?” Harry suggests after a couple more sips, but he doesn't wait for an answer, already pulling Louis by the hand. Nick's playing some American funk and there are people grooving to the music, all sorts of people. A girl with a sick skyscraper-like black power, lots of blokes without their tops on, more psychedelic prints that you can count and a person, who Louis can't tell if it's a man or a woman, rocking a pair of glitter boots that Harry eyes with envy.

They start off shy and hesitant, but then the rum in the cocktail kicks in and warms up the pit of Louis belly and Harry is shaking his hips and singing, “Ahhhh, freak out! Le freak c'est chic”, like the dork that he is and before they realise they are dancing and having fun. Harry is the best dancer; not because he throws great moves, quite the opposite, but because he believes he is, and that's what really matters.

Louis can't stop laughing, the strobe lights are hypnotic and make Harry silly dance moves look staccato and even funnier. He's doing some hilarious impersonation of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, rolling his hands in front of him and pointing to the ceiling, and Louis loves him, loves, loves him.

The night is amazing. They have Piña Coladas and dance YMCA, doing the choreography like a pair of idiots, laughing, laughing all the time. Louis cheeks hurt and he still can't make himself stop because Harry is lovely. He keeps touching Louis with big hands, everywhere, all the time, or asking the boxer to spin him around like a ballerina or singing the lyrics wholeheartedly.

At some point he slides behind Louis, holding onto his hips and swinging at the rhythm of the music and all Louis can smell is his typical sandalwood cologne. Everything would’ve been absolutely obscene if it didn't feel so right. Louis' heart is pulsing so fast in his chest that he's sure Harry can feel it where their thoraxes meet. Louis is burning with want; he's warm all over, slightly sweaty from all the dancing and dying to snog the face off of Harry.

“Do you want another drink, Lou?” Harry asks against Louis' neck, right where his pulse is racing.

 _‘I want you,’_ he thinks, but doesn't say. Instead, he just shakes his head and pulls Harry even closer, hands reaching behind to grab the boy by his love handles. Harry goes easily, always eager and willing to please, chuckling at Louis' neck at nothing in particular. Louis’ never felt so alive.

The boxer is swaying together with Harry, hardly paying attention to the song in the background, but too aware of the massive hands sprawled on his chest, heavy and possessive. Louis is smiling pleased, or maybe a tad bit smug, because when he looks up to the DJ booth Nick locks eyes with him and sends them a mocking eyebrow raise.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Louis blurts in the spur of the moment and Harry doesn't even have to answer because the way his grip on Louis shirt tightens says it all.

Still, he mumbles, “Yeah, yeah. Let's...”

They rush to the cloakroom bumping into people and laughing all the time, and Harry doesn't even say a proper goodbye to girl working there, shoving his beanie on his head and not minding buttoning his coat. His dimple is so deep in his cheek that it seems something was drilled into it. Louis sticks a finger there just to be sure, and Harry's smile broadens.

Everything is covered in snow and the streets are empty. The whole world is white and still, and when the couple burst out of the club they are welcomed by an icy whiff in contrast with The Bulge's stuffy atmosphere. The night is beautiful, serene and brisk, and Louis feels like disturbing that peace. He's got such a high that it feels as if he can do anything.

Harry looks at Louis with huge eyes and, framed by the blue hat, they're the colour of the sky on the hottest day of summer. Louis takes his hand and they run, from nothing to nowhere, just run because they can. Harry is giggling and the sound echoes in the silent city. He stumbles down the street like a baby deer in the woods and Louis wonders if Harry's still drunk, even though he doesn't look like he is.

His brown suede boots are wet and Harry couldn't care less, holding onto Louis trusting, letting himself be lead aimlessly. It's so adorable, and at the same time flattering and hot, that Louis is about to press him to the nearest wall and have a go. They are almost in Piccadilly, taking a turn in Portland Street, a block after the Britannia Hotel, when a white Ford Capri flashes its lights at them.

They realise it's a police patrol car but instead of slowing down Louis speeds up. They skid in some ice running away, but Louis finds their balance back before they collapse. A short glance at Harry, still smiley and compliant, is enough to reassure Louis that this is madness and the right thing to do. He knows they have nothing to hide, they should stop and let the police pat them down, but fuck if he's letting anyone touch Harry tonight.

Under this railway bridge there's a small gap, and they squeeze into, gasping and red faced. Harry giggles uncontrolled, Louis can feel it erupting right against his chest, and he puts a hand over the other man's mouth to shush him. The car passes by, sliding fast in the frost asphalt, blue lights rotating and reflecting on the iron columns of the bridge. Harry's damp breath is warm on his palm. They stay quiet even after the police car is gone, breathing heavy in each other spaces, and it's too calm after all the shenanigans and mischief. But then three things happen.

First, Louis notices how red Harry's mouth is up close, an indecent speckle of ember shining in the dark night, and how his breath mists in the cold air of January while leaving said mouth. Second, it starts snowing again, but this neither of them realise. Third, Harry closes the distance between them and burns Louis’ mouth with a kiss.

It's tender and warm, and much more than Louis was expecting. The fact that Harry gets him slightly by surprise is already enough to make the kiss remarkable, but then he's holding Louis by the waist and the way his lips are moving is... heavenly. The other man's plump lips drag against Louis' and each smacking rolls like a wave in the tide, dragging him in until Louis is limp and drowning. Like a typhoon, it knocks all the air out of Louis and, still, he doesn't want to break away to breathe.

The wind blows some fluffy snow under the bridge, white swirling all around the two men, and the kiss is so heated that it can almost make the flakes melt and evaporate. With a swipe of his tongue on Louis' bottom lip, Harry gives him the fuel Louis needed, and, as if something clicks on him, he presses the boy against the damp wall with urge and kisses him back reverently. In fact, Louis wants Harry to feel everything he'll never have the courage to say out loud.

After dreaming about it for so many times Louis finally has a chance to bury his fingers in his friend's soft hair. He throws the blue beanie dramatically in the air and then digs in. It feels splendid, as if caressing cotton. The way Harry's knees seem to faintly buckle only makes Louis work harder on his scalp. He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss too, to taste Harry heartily.

And, although the kiss started off as soft, Harry reacts instantly when Louis tugs his hair lightly with one hand while the other snakes under Harry's cosy coat. Louis feels under the tip of his fingers, the muscles of the other man's back straining and tensing up when he grabs Louis' waist with want. Harry lets out a shaken breath through his nose, parting just to adjust his head and Louis can't stop thinking about how much he loves him. Harry is just plain gorgeous and he loves him so much, it's insane.

He pulls Louis by the hips, rutting into him even though the boxer has got him squished to the wall. “Fuck,” Louis mutters between kisses. His pants are getting tighter and Louis slides a leg between Harry's long ones so he can feel what he's doing to Louis. His head is spinning, dizzy like when in summer the day is too hot and everything is languid and ethereal. Harry is chasing his tongue as if he needs a part of Louis that he can't find anywhere else and Louis will gladly give it to him, whatever it is.

Harry leaves his mouth to pepper wet devoted little kisses on his jawline and Louis claws his nails on his broad back, can't help. The other tenses up and relaxes, the big hand gently cupping the side of Louis' head twitching and then loosening up again. Louis is drawing crazy patterns on Harry's back with his fingers, too fascinated with how wide it is and how warm Harry glows now.

The touch seems to do things to Harry because he starts grinding on Louis again. It's so thrilling, one of the most exciting things Louis has ever done, snogging someone he's in love with, after months pining after them. He feels invincible and wants even more. He wants everything. Harry looks too gone himself; an obscene growl leaves his mouth when he rocks resolutely against Louis, like a wolf howling to the full moon, and Louis has to gather all his willpower to finally put a distance between them.

The confused look Harry send him reminds Louis of Alice when she stops spinning and finds herself in Wonderland. But they are in the middle of the street, and God knows who could walk into them. They can't go to jail again. At least not this soon.

Harry's eyes are popped as if he can't believe what he just done. Louis smiles at him, even though his mouth is numb, because... Well, first because he can't hold back and second because Harry needs to know that everything is fine. More than fine. They are still too attached to each other, too hard under their bellies, and Louis wants so much more. He can't stop groping Harry... his love handles, his shoulder blades, his hips.

“You okay?” Louis asks, just a whisper that the wind carries away. Harry nods and his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. He looks gorgeous framed against the white scenery, all fiery crimson and deep green, like an English rose that just bloomed on the snow. From where he is Louis can see even the fine and faint facial hair on the other man's face and he feels a need to touch it so badly, but it's odd, he isn't sure if he's allowed.

He's still transfixed, watching with sparkly eyes the perfection that is Harry Styles, when Harry mutters, “I'm so glad I've read my horoscope today.”

And off course. It's so random and typical Harry. Saying this sort of nonsense after a kiss. Being intriguing and out of the box and just... lovely. Sometimes the affection that washes over Louis whenever Harry does something is so big that the boxer doesn't even know what to do with himself. He doesn't have an answer straight away and it's good to be disarmed sometimes.

“Why's that?” he simply asks.

“Because Mars is in Scorpio,” Harry says, and Louis is rolling his eyes. “It told me to do what I was hesitating to for a while, because I wouldn't risk anything,” he explains and his eyes are full of intent when he looks at the boxer. Louis legitimately can't breathe now. Harry... Harry just admitted he wanted to kiss him for a while. For some time. He wanted to kiss Louis and was hesitating and this means he corresponds Louis feelings, at least in some degree.

Yes, Harry's enthusiasm more or less showed that he was on board with whatever is happening tonight, but he confessing that he was pining too... It’s madness. It makes Louis regret all the time they wasted, all the moments they weren't kissing.

“I... I don't even know what to say,” he admits, still spellbound. “You're something else, Harold,” Louis adds endeared and for the first time not caring to hide it. Harry seems to consider his answer for a moment, playing absently with Louis earlobe.

“I don't know, you should probably say,” he replies shrugging nonchalant, putting on a higher tone to mimic Louis: “ _'You're great kisser, Harry. I'm glad you believe in astrology. Please, kiss me again'_ ”

Louis laughs, loud and tingling in the silvery night, and Harry smiles back, eyes crinkled in that proud way they do when he makes Louis laugh. For that Louis has a reply on the tip of his tongue, “You're a waffle that talks way too much, Harry. Please put your mouth to good use.”

Louis doesn't even wait Harry to finish laughing before he himself locks their lips again. They have a long lost time to compensate. And, besides, they should take advantage while the stars are aligned in their favour.

-

“That's Bern,” Harry says when he notices Louis looking at the fern hanging from the ceiling of his and Zayn's flat. He handles Louis a steamy cuppa and stands beside the man, looking at the plant too. Louis plays with one of the dry leaves, wondering how Harry managed to keep Bern alive in the harsh winter, unless he turned into sunshine himself, which it's not that hard to believe. “My brave little champion too,” Harry adds.

Louis is still buzzing from the snog under the bridge, still high on Harry, and the quietness of Harry's flat is almost too much to handle. But the boy insisted on having warm tea before anything, “because you're shivering, Lou,” and the boxer only agreed because he didn't fancy telling Harry the reason he was trembling had nothing to do with the blizzard.

“Too?” Louis asks after taking a sip. “I'm not little.”

“Who said I was talking about you?” Harry replies smiling devilish behind his cup. God, Louis can't wait to drag Harry to the bedroom and have his way with him.

Instead, he exclaims in mock surprise, “Oh, do you call someone else champion?”

“I might...” Harry replies shrugging, still smiling like an idiot.

“Do you, though?” Louis insists, leaving Bern's weak stem to place a hand on Harry's hipbone.

“No,” the other man admits, not smiling anymore, eyes suddenly glistening in intent.

“Good,” Louis says, almost too demeaning. He places his tea on the window sill and he can feel the intense stare of Harry burning him for the short time he turns his back to the boy.

“Why is it good?” Harry asks when Louis attention is on him again, and his voice is just a low husk that sends electric shocks straight to Louis' groin.

“Was starting to get jealous here,” Louis answers nonchalant. Harry barks out a laugh, throwing his head back and displaying his neck obscenely. Louis wants to leave several marks there, but for now he only tightens the grip on the other's hip.

“Louis is a jelly cry baby, huh?”

He rolls his eyes at that, mostly to mask how inside of his chest his heart is pumping fast because Harry remembers their jokes, even the small ones. “I am not. But that doesn't mean I'm ok with you calling someone else champion. Besides from Bern, The Fern.”

“It's okay, Bern is a jealous lad too,” Harry says with a smirk, and if Louis is being honest he can't even concentrate on what Harry is saying anymore. It could be gibberish for all he knows, but Louis is done with teasing, they danced around each other enough.

“Is he? He better not look over now, then, because I'm about to kiss you.”

-

Harry's room smells of incense and there's a dream catcher hanging above his bed. For the quick impression Louis has, while the boy is lighting up some candles around the place, it fits the him; it's tidy, welcoming and quirky. But before Louis can make much of it he's being kissed all the way to the bed, and they only don't stumble because Louis is the one walking backwards. The back of his knees hit the mattress and Harry is still kissing him. He sits down on it and Harry's mouth is still on his. Louis pulls him up into his lap and Harry's tongue is still twisting with his.

The sounds of their lips smacking and of their clothes rustling are loud in the quiet room and driving Louis completely insane. He's groping Harry's arse over his jeans, face buried where the boy smells the most of sandalwood. It's absolutely intoxicating. Louis is blindingly kissing his cheeks and neck and the sweet spot on his jaw where it makes a sharp curve. When he starts kneading Harry's bum he can't hold back a, “Fuck, you're so hot, H,” and in response Harry let's out a small whimper from the back of his throat.

Everything is so hot, Louis still can't believe he and Harry... Are there in his bedroom, doing this. How many nights has he fantasised about it and now Harry's biting his ear, groaning into it, rutting against him, just for him. Harry's fingers in his hair are divine and he can already feel the other's hard on against Louis' own cock.

“I wanna suck you off,” Harry says blunt and Louis would pass out if he didn't want that so much too.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles breathlessly, and Harry kisses him one more time, thankful as if Louis is doing him a favour and fuck, Harry's going to be the end of him.

Louis lays down, legs still dangling from the edge of the bed, and Harry kneels in front of him, massive hands sprawled on Louis thighs, groping them hard. Harry fumbles with Louis' belt, always clumsy and wonderful, but then Louis is down to his underpants and it doesn't matter anymore. Harry runs his nose along the length of his still clothed dick and that's when Louis stops properly functioning.

It's like someone just lit a bonfire underneath him because all that he can feel is heat. The heat of Harry's damp breath, taking forever to put Louis into his mouth; the heat of his hands still working on Louis muscular thighs; even the heat where Harry's legs are brushing his ankles. Wherever the boy touches him, Louis catches fire.

Finally Harry grabs a hold of him, grasping a stunned, “You're so thick,” that makes Louis cock twitch in his hand. Harry works him in lazy, painfully slow drags and Louis is on the verge of begging when at last Harry's tongue is on his dick's head.

“Ah, shit” Louis groans because it's too much. So fucking much. Harry's mouth is... delicious and maddening and everything all at once.

There's something empowering about having someone between your legs and on their knees for you, but Harry is something else. He's so giving and dedicated. Harry's humming as if he's delighted, tasting something incredibly good and that's even more sexy than his mouth sucking Louis concentrated and fervently. Louis is absolutely doomed and so close already. He needs to make Harry stop but it feels like heaven and it's hot as hell.

“Take off your shirt?” Louis asks sitting down and waking Harry from his trance. “I want... I want to see you.”

Standing on his feet again, Harry strips. He fucking strips, eyes never leaving Louis apart from when he's pulling his jumper over his head. Harry jumps off of his jeans and then pulls down his black pants, displayed in all his naked glorious to Louis. All to his disposal.

He's stunning. So bloody gorgeous that Louis giggles, can't hold it back, because he's so damn happy and Harry is so damn handsome. He falls on his back on bed again, hands on his eyes trying to control the erupting nervous laughter that can't be suppressed. Trying to breath and steady his heart rate because he's going to self-combust then and there.

“What?” Harry asks and fuck, he's offended. When Louis looks at him again he's still insanely beautiful and hard, and he has both hands on his waist, frowning wounded.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says reaching for him, pulling Harry between his legs again, hugging his middle. “I wasn't having a laugh at you, love. I... I'm just so fucking happy and you're ridiculously attractive. It's... It's quite unbelievable.”

That seems to appease Harry and he buries his finger in Louis hair again, massaging his scalp in a way that make Louis eyes roll to the back of his skull.

“Let me make it up to you?” Louis asks against the toned abdomen in front of him because he's so grateful too. He wants to do everything _with_ Harry, wants to do everything _to_ him. When he looks up through his eyelashes Harry seems on verge to devour him alive. His eyes are so ablaze that Louis doesn't even wait for an answer, just holds the base of Harry's beautiful cock and gives it a lick.

Dear Lord, does he tastes fantastic. Louis gives another lick on the underside, where a vein is pulsing, feeling its heaviness on his tongue and then he swallows half of it. All he wants to do is devour Harry. And he's so responsive, groaning shamelessly loud, one hand gripping Louis hair on the nape, the other one clawing the other man's shoulder. Louis bobs his head, pumping with a tight fist the bit he can't put inside his mouth. Harry's starting to leak, he can taste the saltiness and it's irresistible.

“Louis, pleasepleaseplease,” Harry croaks and his voice is wrecked. “I'll-”

Before stopping Louis gives the slit one last lick, just to keep up with his fame of teaser, and then Harry is crawling on top of him, covering Louis' whole body with his gorgeous one. There's this chant of _“mine mine mine”_   in Louis' brain because, at least for tonight, Harry's his.

Harry grunts displeased when he realises Louis still has his top on, and then he's helping him out of it mumbling, “huge impediment”. As soon as the shirt is off he attacks Louis collarbones with a snaking wet tongue. Warm hands run up and down the sides of Louis as if memorizing his contours and it feels as if the whole room is on fire. It's like it’s high summer right in the end of January and Louis is burning orange and yellow and delirious for Harry.

He's so distracted and focused on Harry, Harry, Harry; engulfed in luscious hair, sandalwood scent, the reddest and most amazing lips, hands tenderly touching him everywhere, that when Harry uncaps the lube with a click, he startles. “Sorry,” Harry murmurs chuckling, even though there's no need to be quiet. “Would you-?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Louis breathes, suddenly too aware of what they are doing again, watching with a twist in his guts as Harry coats his fingers with the cold lubricant. “Can you lay down for me, baby?” he asks, and Harry does so, yielding as always. Louis has to hold back the _'I love you'_   he has tickling on the tip of his tongue.

One of the most sublimes experiences of his life, hands down, is watching Harry Styles opening up for him, in all senses. Not only how he's tender between his spread legs, but how trusting he is. How pliant and soft he looks, wild hair all over the pillow, smiling satisfied even being at Louis mercy. When Louis finds it, the exact spot, Harry quivers under him, mewling languid and gorgeous.

With one last look at Harry, when the boy reassures Louis with a lustful melted smirk, Louis positions in front of his entrance and presses in. Fuck, it's hot. Not even warm, it's... boiling. Harry is burning with desire and Louis can feel it, can feel it with every fibre of his body. When he buries in deep, until he's completely nestled inside of Harry, the other man's warmth sends electric shocks to all his nerves and Louis has to brace himself on Harry's biceps for several seconds.

Harry looks up at him with teary and incredibly big eyes and Louis has to ask him, “Are you ok?”

To which Harry shakily answers, “More than.” He pulls Louis down for a kiss, a tender and almost too demure kiss given how connected they are at the moment, but so Harry-like. “Now move, please,” Harry demands, squeezing Louis arse playfully. “'m bout to explode.”

“That you are,” Louis replies maliciously, not missing a beat, and Harry is laughing when Louis starts fucking into him. The first thrusts are still hesitant, measured drags that has Harry sighing impatience. But then Louis grabs a hold of Harry's dick, pumping it at the same rhythm he's moving, and Harry relaxes and gives in.

Louis knows for sure he finds the bundle of nerves inside of Harry again when the long legs around him twitch involuntarily, and that's when he starts rocking vehemently. There's a trail of sweat rolling down along his spine and Harry smears it when he holds onto Louis back, nails brushing his skin, not daring to claw just yet.

Harry is groaning, babbling Louis name in between broken curses and that's the fuel Louis needs to keep thrusting hectic, fucking into Harry until he falls apart. From what Louis can tell; by the way the cock in his hand is hard and pulsing; by the way Harry's belly is waving uncontrollably; by the way his front teeth are biting his lips sore, Harry's not far.

“Fuck, yeah Louis, right- Ugh. I'm- Yes,” he's hissing, and Louis isn't going to last long himself, so he grunts a “Give it to me, baby” and just like that, by command, Harry cums.

The squirt hits both of their stomachs and the way Harry clenches around him, in a snug and warm grip, is enough for Louis reach climax too. It's the closest Louis will ever get to a near death experience; all he can see for a moment is light, even though his eyelids are shut tight. It feels as if the sun exploded and suddenly the world is filled with sunlight and heat.

Louis is burning in a way that makes him yearn for even more. He have never had sex like this before, but he's quite convinced that this is what people mean by making love. God, he's becoming such a sap.

-

“Hey, Harry. Hey, Lou,” Zayn greets casually walking into the flat, as if is no big deal that Louis is in his kitchen, wearing Harry's _Stop Ethio-Somali War_ shirt and looking thoroughly fucked.

“Morning,” Harry croaks from the cook top, where he's flipping pancakes and showing off his culinary skills.

“More like afternoon,” the punk replies and there it is, the tease, so subtle that if you blink you miss it. Zayn opens the fridge and drinks orange juice straight from the gallon. Ugh, Louis is only having tea for breakfast now.

“Oh. We... were very tired and- Hm, lost track of time,” Harry lies, badly. The truth is that they were very aware of how late it was, but couldn't care less. They did sleep in, but then when they woke up they had incredible morning sex – Harry insisted on riding him, and damn if Harry doesn't have lots of stamina even early in the morning.

Louis probably held Harry back in bed for at least an hour, and all of the boy's efforts to get up to have a shower because, “we are disgustingly sticky, Lou,” were turned down because Louis’ cuddling skills are out of this world. So they snuggled up and snogged, and kept messing with each other for a long time. Harry even attempted to tickle Louis, to which he nearly got a knee on his groin, saved only because he argued it would be mostly Louis loss if something happened to his cock.

And then, when Harry finally broke free, it didn't last long before Louis was surprising him in the shower. To be honest Harry was practically asking for it, singing Simon & Garfunkel's catchy chorus “Lie-la-lie. Lie-la-lie, lie-la-lie” out loud, because Louis broke into the bathroom asking teasingly, “Are you _seriously_ singing a song called _The Boxer_?”

So yeah, it's been a great day so far.

“It’s alright,” Zayn assures because he couldn't care less, kicking off his heavy boots on his way to the sitting room. “The lads will be here soon, though,” he shouts from the other room. “Put some clothes on.”

Harry turns around with a plate of golden pancakes drenched in glistening syrup, looking as precious and sweet as the cook himself. He places them into Louis lap, where the man's sitting on the sofa, and then plops on his side saying, “They don't mind.”

Zayn raises his eyes from where he's reading a comic book to look between them and then reply, “Maybe Louis will.”

The comment makes them blush, Louis can see Harry's cheeks rosy as he munches a bite of pancake, but he doesn't dignify Zayn with an answer. Somehow that bloke seems to be the only one who can get away with ironic remarks. And, also, because he's ravenous.

-

The lads arrive around three to play Risk, a board game that Zayn's got from his mum for Christmas and which is supposed to be less friendship-ruining than Monopoly. When they roughly hear about Harry and Louis, Liam and Niall are over the moon. Niall might be even on cloud nine and his happiness is infectious. He hugs Louis, shouting a string of curses that'd make a sailor blush and then climbs on top of Harry to congratulate him too.

“Mate, you seriously need to get some if you get this worked up over other people,” Louis teases the Irishman, playing with Harry's hair because his head is on his shoulder and because now he can.

Whenever he feels like, Louis simply has to reach up and pet the curls. They are shamelessly cuddling in the same old armchair from the first day Louis visited the flat. He'd feel bad for his friends, forcing them to witness such public display of affection, if Harry wasn't so cuddly and didn't smell so good.

“Nah, is not that,” Niall answers shaking his head and taking a sip of his can of beer. “You two have been dancing around each other for ages now, it was driving us all fucking mad. Hey,” he says perking up, remembering something. “Who won the bet?”

“What?” Harry asks clueless and when the couple look over to their friends sitting opposite them, only Liam has the decency of looking embarrassed. Zayn is his usual unfazed self and Niall is laughing, for once behind his hand.

“I hope you're aware that whoever won this shit is paying a round for us,” Louis says disgruntled, burrowing into Harry's side.

“Or better, Lou, they can pay for our dinner,” Harry mutters hotly into his neck. Jesus, he'll be the death of Louis.

“Yes, baby! Brilliant! You wankers are paying us dinner, our first proper date. Harry chooses the place.”

“Thanks, Champion,” Harry says raising his head from Louis shoulder to place a smiley kiss on his mouth. Yeah, Louis is a fucking champion and he won in life. He won the best prize he could've asked for.

  

**Manchester, UK (May 2014)**

The reporter sighs one more time, looking frustrated at the couple in front of her as they once again ignore her question. Louis and Harry are sat on a couch, holding hands and wearing matching suits. The recorder is running out of tape and the woman across them fixes her glasses on her face in a nervous tic as Harry rambles, “I still think we should have gone by The Tomlinsons only.”

“Nonsense,” Louis cuts him. “Why wouldn't I want your ridiculous last name?”

“It's quite fancy, isn't it? Styles hyphen Tomlinson” Harry says slowly, rolling the renovated wedding band in his finger pensive, as if testing to see how the name sits on his tongue. “What if we went with a portmanteau? An amalgamated name like Brangelina. Kimye.”

The reporter sees an opportunity to jump in, but she merely has the chance to ask, “Are they an inspiration...?” when Louis interrupts her:

“Tomlinles? Argh, no. Stylinson!” he exclaims, as if it's the brightest idea he had in years. “Yeah, maybe. But I'm telling you, my dear,” Louis says turning to his finally husband, squeezing Harry's hand, and Harry knows there's something condemning to come, “you need to find something else to do with your retirement than reading OK! magazine.”

“Heeey, you're not the boss of me,” Harry protests folding his arms, and Louis swears it would look ridiculous in any other 50-something year old man, but that's Harry.

“Technically I am. There's a paper in the register office attesting it now,” Louis replies arching his eyebrows bold and Harry laughs, briefly laying his head on Louis shoulder. When he talks, his eyes are shining because yeah, there's a paper saying they are husband and husband now.

“Lou, as Joni Mitchell said, _we don't need no piece of paper from the city hall_ ,” Harry sings and he's still a dork that makes too many music references for his own sake.

“Reckon it's true, we never needed. But it's Mr. Styles-Tomlinson to you now.”

Harry still has that wicked sparkle on his eyes, that one he saves for Louis, when the world stops existing and it's only the other man and nothing else. Louis looks back at him adoringly too and they literally forget the journalist is there and that the woman wants them to talk something worth publishing instead of sweet nothings.

“I love you, Champion,” Harry says, flashing a smile at Louis that has some more crinkles than when they were young, but is still blinding bright. Louis is thinking that his husband might have changed a bit all these years, but he's still lovely. Gorgeous, in fact.

“I love you too, Mr. Styles-Tomlinson,” Louis replies whispering. Harry chuckles, pinching his own cheek in a way that, if Louis didn't know was a quirk, he'd think Harry's trying to check if he's dreaming or awake.

“Will you stop repeating our last name anytime soon?” Harry asks muttering too, in their own private bubble.

“Not a chance,” Louis confesses fighting back a smile that he can't control. It's ridiculous. They are ridiculous. It's been 35 years. He's turning whopping 60 this December. He's a grandfather. And they are still madly in love.

When Louis finally looks away from Harry he notices the young woman sitting opposite them and she isn't mad anymore. Quite the opposite, she's wearing a fond smile, looking even a bit teary, and Louis rescues her by asking, “Sorry, love, what was your question again?”

“Oh,” she says startled, sitting up straight and fishing a notepad from her coat's pocket. “I was asking you two how does it feel to be the first same sex couple to get married in Manchester. But I guess I just figured it out.”

 

Manchester in 2014 can still be described as bleak and it rains all the time, obviously it does. But now Louis believes it only adds to the charm of the city. The place is welcoming and cheerful if you know where to search. It's a nice place to build a life, gather some friends, start a family, bring up three kids.

There are still grey post industrial slum housings covered with century old soot. The same old Victorian constructions are there too, but also some shining new skyscrapers. The sense of auspiciousness, towering triumph and utter joy, is overpowering. There's beauty everywhere you look, Louis thinks. Especially with Harry by his side, year after year after year.

**Author's Note:**

> \- [anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoyoulittlepoofer/works) was my life saviour beta reader who proofread it in record time. i owe you so much, let me pay you at least an ice cream or something.  
> \- a shout out to riverniall again for her lovely prompt, i hope you liked it.  
> \- i'm sorry for the barebacking sex but you know, it was the 70s and all. please, practise safe sex, though.
> 
> \- some visuals of harry's outfits mentioned throughout the fic: [on the gifts exchange at the pub](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/12/12/23FCB07600000578-2871175-image-a-27_1418372237560.jpg), and here are the [braids of doom](https://40.media.tumblr.com/c5f3f59144b92fe10341fc986f174dcb/tumblr_ncwnbb0Fzc1rmjp1uo2_500.png), [yellow shorts from hell](http://o.aolcdn.com/hss/storage/midas/7eb3359864b2b8bfbd78e17fe33f956e/200526740/Screen+Shot+2014-08-04+at+10.56.53+AM.png) (can you even box in these tiny things? idc) and [in full blue beanie glory](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B4qgx70CQAAlbwi.jpg) when they kiss in the snow.
> 
> \- harry [tweeted](https://twitter.com/harry_styles/status/540494602642665474) 'you can tell far too much about a person by the monopoly piece they play as' at the same week i was writing the monopoly scene, ask me if i freaked out. and he [quotes](https://twitter.com/harry_styles/status/384267513388744705) joni mitchell in real life as well.
> 
> now hold my hand cause i'm about take you on a magical musical journey:
> 
> \- listen to [box of rain here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4SqDx1vi4c), thanks for putting me in the mood grateful dead  
> \- listen to [heroes here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tgcc5V9Hu3g), by louis' glam rock double and all times favourite, mr bowie  
> \- listen to [the boxer here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3LFML_pxlY), the song harry sings in the shower because he's a huge dork god i love him  
> \- listen to the albums of harry's vinyl collection ([fleetwood mac's rumors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvVznAb9-Ss), [stones' black and blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRVlhlwUMlg), [bowies' heroes - the album](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fmw7gSDRnTA), [marley's exodus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrFzCtUFgnc), [pink floyd's animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qplrq6s7C6c), [queen's a night at the opera](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-vPB4Yd6AA), [stevie wonder's songs in the key of life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkMIjgKSIvE), [ramones' rocket to russia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Q2epV7uR60))
> 
> UPDATE: i made this fic a mix on 8tracks, [listen to it here](http://8tracks.com/amandamoraisa/box-of-rain)
> 
> also, come say hi [on tumblr](http://indierection.tumblr.com/)


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